Trinity
by Heath Wingwhit
Summary: After being abandoned in the Fade, Hawke returns to the world. The war is over, but Cassandra and Leliana would ask more of her.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I don't even remember where this idea came from. I don't think I'd even finished the game when it came to me. I ship all three, in every conceivable way. Make of that what you will. Thanks to Allusive for the summary and title. I'm shit at those things.

* * *

><p>Hawke is spit back into Thedas, unwhole.<p>

This world is not like the Fade. Colors are vibrant though they do not excite her. Spirits do not linger, mourning, jealous, angry, weeping. Her family is not here. She supposes she will miss her family. The Fade… felt steady. Her memories were not… warm. Things are not … warm anymore.

She tries to establish a timeline. Varric called her. The Inquisitor needed help. They fought Grey Wardens. They went into the Fade. Alistair got to leave. The Inquisitor left her behind. She stayed to fight the giant creature. A spider. She's always hated spiders, though the fear seems unwarranted now, nonsensical. When she felt fear, it shot like waves of numbness over her. There was fear before Nightmare. She fought it… and then…

She cannot recall. Fear ceased to exist.

Now she is here. The sky is not green anymore. She has her staff but she drops it. She does not need it anymore.

* * *

><p>It takes weeks to return to Skyhold. It seems fitting to return there. Things happen, the sorts of things that happen to her kind of people. She bears it and moves on. It is a mercy to be spared feeling. She is alive. She prefers to be alive than to be not alive.<p>

When she arrives at Skyhold people murmur, others reach out to her. She answers their questions articulately until they turn away and begin frantic whisperings amongst themselves. She takes the steep steps up to the great hall. There are a good deal many more people than before. Varric sees her. His face lights up. He shouts her name. Hawke! He runs over, a smile on his face that threatens to break it. It seems he is barely containing his tears.

Hawke gives a faint nod. "Greetings, Varric. We have not seen each other in quite some time. Skyhold has grown." He shakes his head, steps back, mutters 'no, no, no'. He puts his hands over his eyes. Curious. "Why do you cry?"

* * *

><p>Hawke settles into a majestic room. Larger than the one she had in Kirkwall before the Templars ran her out of the city. She was a viscountess. It was best to go. It would keep the people of Kirkwall safe. They were coming for her.<p>

She is a viscountess no more. Once she had a purpose. In time, someone will give her a purpose again. Perhaps she'll make runes. Varric visits often, the laughter in his voice odd, his eyes always shinier than she remembers. Weeks pass.

Inquisitor Lavellan visits and makes apologies that Hawke does not accept. "I volunteered to stay behind. It was the right thing to do." Everyone appears uncomfortable around her but she does not share their discomfort. Eventually Lavellan leaves. She ceases to 'stop by'. The advisors visit. Cullen can hardly meet her eyes and says things like _I am so sorry this happened to you. _Other things like _The Inquisition would not have been possible if not for your doing. _Josephine reads her tales of chevaliers and grand tourneys. Hawke might have joked about this once. "Leliana once told tales in the Lothering chantry," Hawke informs her.

Josephine seems to be the only who is at ease around her. "Ah, yes, well. That was all a very long time ago. She is very busy now with preparations for the next Divine. But she does send her well wishes." Josephine's smiles never dim. A diplomat. She gathers her books and hems of her dress and leaves. They come in and out like that. She thinks they come to gawk.

Hawke does not understand why people treat her as if she were an invalid. She moves around Skyhold and they avoid her. It is different from the way they avoid others like her. She becomes a recluse and waits for a purpose.

Finally Cassandra and Varric enter. They talk to a person who isn't there. They talk about her as if she were not present. Hawke sits primly at the edge of the bed, hands laced neatly on her lap. After another exchange that makes little sense with the invisible party they speak to, Cassandra kneels before her, a thick tome in hand.

"I am sorry this has happened to you," Cassandra shakes her head. "But at least your injuries have healed. That is… a start." Cassandra takes her hand and holds it. Hawke looks at their hands. Cassandra's olive skin tone makes Hawke look too pale. "It is strange. I spent so much time searching for you and even when we finally found you, I did not have time for conversation. At least it felt that way. You did not deserve this." Hawke looks at her unsure of why she is apologetic. "There is a way…"

"Maker, Seeker," Varric crosses his arms, "will you get on with it? The Kid is ready. I know how eager you were to have us both clapped in irons at one point in time but I can't bear to see her like this any longer. She's turned into—this is duller than Choir Boy!"

"Quiet," Cassandra snaps. "I am not even certain this will work. We have done it with the Seekers, true—but I have never done this with a mage. Varric—if this does not work—"

"It'll work," he grouses. Varric toes his boot into the floor, shifting his weight before meeting Hawke's eyes. "Don't worry. We'll get things back to normal. The Seeker will see to that. I think it's fair to say that she and the Inquisition owe us one."

"Aren't you the ones that let Corypheus loose on the world?" she retorts. Varric glowers. "No matter. You are not seeing us at our best," she tells Hawke. "All right. Cole. Do you know what to do?" she looks up at the air. Hawke looks and sees nothing. "Very well. And be careful—do not— Cole—!"

There is a probing, an essence, something that sweeps over her entirely. It is a light in the dark. Creation. Breath flows into her lungs. The scent of a cold winter breeze. Every piece of her wakes. A young pale man with a ridiculously large hat smiles at her. The Seeker is on her knees, appraising her cautiously and Varric—brown eyes wanting desperately hope. Memories surge into her. Ones that were already there but she hadn't experienced. She's alive again. It is overwhelming. She's alive. She's out and she's alive.

Cassandra brings a steady hand to her arm. "Take your time. The transition might be difficult. It is not the same as…" she bows her head.

Varric looks at Hawke anxiously. She's never seen him look like that. Like a boy who has a puppy within reach. Like a boy who will begin to cry if it is snatched away from him.

She looks at the group. They've been visiting for weeks. The boy she doesn't recall seeing since her return though his presence feels… familiar. "Nice hat," Hawke says to him. She's met him before but can't remember his name. "If your aim was to be pale as a ghost, congratulations, you've succeeded admirably." And then, unable to fight it any longer, she begins to cry.

Varric sits next to her. The boy and Cassandra leave.

* * *

><p>Not everything comes back. It's like unpacking a warehouse full of crates. A warehouse worth of emotions and memories. There's so much there that you aren't aware of what's missing, not right away, not until it's staring you in the face. Not until Isabela arrives at Skyhold.<p>

Hawke watches her from her bedroom in the tower. Isabela is small in the garden, arguing with Varric, pointing a finger emphatically. She's worked up about something and all Varric can do is slump his shoulders and look away. Lavellan arrives and Isabela faces her. Even from a distance Hawke knows something is amiss. A hand lashes out and not a moment later Lavellan is on the ground. Then everyone is rushing at Isabela.

Then Hawke is running, sprinting, nearly falling down the stairs.

* * *

><p>Isabela sits in a cell. Hawke holds the key. Cullen has given it to her, along with a stern warning and encouragement to thank the Inquisitor for her leniency. When Isabela sees Hawke, she stands, paces. "Oh, it's you. Thought it'd be the pissy elf girl again. She seems like the fun sort, under different circumstances." She massages her wrists. "After everything, this is where we are?" Her voice has a touch of emotion in it. Hawke moves closer, fingers wrapping around the bars. "If I knew—balls. I would have never let you go."<p>

Hawke opens the cell. For moments they stare at each other. Hawke has their memories. She seems so happy in them. They both do. Though they fought, she knows that, remembers that. But there's no feeling in her. Hawke searches for it but it can't be found. Not all of her came back. Pieces of her were left in the Fade. Or maybe the boy couldn't restore everything.

"When I got that letter from Varric—" Isabela bites her lip, lowers her head. "Maker, he was supposed to take care of you. How did he let that Inquisitor leave you there? Why didn't he fight her? I've been so bloody angry."

"Varric's been beating himself up over it. Don't be angry… I. I offered." Hawke doesn't miss her frown, the hurt on her face. "I thought—I hoped… if anyone knew about moving on… I'm sorry."

Isabela shakes her head. "You're different."

"No." It isn't anything she wants to hear. "Cassandra said I needed time to adjust. That this is normal. Not everything's back yet."

"You don't love me anymore, Marian. How can you say you haven't changed?"

Hawke doesn't want to think it. Since she … returned… things remain overwhelming. Every sensation, every fragrance, every touch and memory. There are things she wishes she'd left behind but knows she never will. She remembers the slaughter of Kirkwall, the way the Templars broke into her home, how they almost had her. They were relentless. She and Isabela parted ways and promised to reunite. They have. It isn't what she imagined. "You've changed too. I mean… you're wearing a jacket. And pants. What will people think?"

Isabela pushes her weakly. Hawke takes her wrist and holds onto it. Isabela rests against her. "I hate this place. It's cold. No ocean in sight." Hawke closes her eyes. "Damn it. I really thought… when you said forever, I believed it." Hawke feels her heart tick guiltily but nothing more. Her memories make her resentful.

"Not everything's changed. You're as beautiful as ever."

"Oh, sure. I'm getting on in age. Sure this isn't what this convenient love lapse is about?"

When Isabela first arrived, she greeted Hawke by throwing her arms around her. When she tried to kiss her, Hawke pulled away, perplexed. A moment passed. They both knew something was wrong. They realized it at the same time. "There's nothing convenient about it. You caught me… out of sorts the first time. Should we have one last go at it, for old time's sake? It wouldn't be our first time in a cell."

"As tempting as that is, I'll pass," she pulls away, amber eyes glistening, despite the brightness of her smile. "It's been so long, my hinges are getting as rusty as Aveline's." She sighs. "It'd be different and I'd resent you. Then I'd put a knife in that pretty inquisitor of yours." She shakes her head. "You were always too selfless. I know I teased you about it but secretly I loved it. If you were selfish like me…" she shakes her head, "but now it's ruined us."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I."

* * *

><p>Hawke thinks she may have become a boogeyman to the people of Thedas. From Champion of Kirkwall, to the one behind the Circles' rebellions, left to die in the Fade, only to be returned a Tranquil and now, seemingly, normal again, or making a good show of it. No one knows what to make of her. She can't say she knows what to make of herself. At least she won't be stuck making runes.<p>

What's a Champion in the face of the Inquisition? A fish in a pond. Maryden's begun singing tragic songs about her. It's all very romantic, it's only being alone and miserable that makes her forget. The tavern is no good. It's no Hanged Man. She misses the swill, she misses Norah and Corrf. Of course, they've both been dead for some time now. She wonders if she was dead.

She nurses her ale and is finishing the last swallow when she spots a letter beside her glass. She isn't sure how it got there. She's seen no one near. Still, she unfolds the letter, on the creamy, heavy stock, and opens it. _Come to the War Room, alone._

Normally, she'd think it a trap but she can't think of any reason anyone would think to trap her there, in the beating heart of Skyhold. Nor can she think of anyone she matters enough to anymore. She tries not to think of Isabela. The night is crisp and the beer keeps warmth in her cheeks as she moves through the fortress. She expects resistance from the guards at this time of night but they all straighten when she walks close and open the doors.

The great hall is empty and only the flicker of torches is heard as she moves. They flare when she's near. She tries not to fidget though she doesn't understand where the urge comes from. Soon she's at the War Room. Leliana and Cassandra stand there, sober as anything. Hawke remembers a time, long ago, when Leliana smiled. Now the woman's eyes are analytical and reserved.

_"_You made it," Cassandra says.

"Oh, you know me. My dance card being what it is, I go to the opening of an envelope these days." She gives them both a lopsided smile, a small shrug. Leliana and Cassandra exchange looks. Hawke adjusts the gauntlet of her armor. It's been so long since she's had to fight, anything physical anyway. That kind of fighting was always the simplest. _Except for that pesky spider. Don't forget that. _"You didn't beat poor Varric into revealing where I was, did you? I'm fairly easy to find these days."

"I am no thug," Cassandra crosses her arms. Despite the gruffness in her voice, Cassandra seems incapable of impersonating ice the way Leliana can. The women seem polar opposites, one ice, the other fire, both terrifying in their own way.

"Might have worked better," Hawke returns lightly. "But I'm happy you didn't think of it. I do treasure Varric. And I don't take kindly to those who think to mistreat him."

Leliana scoffs. "Was that a threat, Champion?"

Hawke smiles. "I'd have to be mad to make threats around you, Lady Nightingale," she nods curtly at her before looking around the room. "Have you considered chairs for this room? Or… a really large board game? That's quite the table." The drink affects her differently than it used to. Her head swims. "I assume you didn't invite me so we could banter all evening."

"No, we did not," Leliana's words remain clipped, as if every word pulled from her costs a sovereign. The Inquisition should have plenty of those. They are rich beyond imagination. And still… it is strange to see her like this. What happened to change her so? She once had a reputation for being a prankster, for babbling constantly of shoes and telling tales. Now her name is whispered only after glancing every which way. Now she is the boogeyman.

_At least it's not me, _Hawke thinks. "Think you might tell me this evening? Before… I don't know, _two _archdemons and a magister darkspawn god show up? Things don't stay quiet long when I'm near."

"That would seem to be the case," Cassandra says.

Leliana lifts a stack of papers. "I have done a great deal of research on you, Champion."

"Research?" Hawke arches her eyebrows. "Is that what they call spying these days?" First Aveline and now Leliana. This redhead, however, is far more terrifying. "I like it. I think I'll employ the same. 'No, Serah, that was not magic you saw me cast, I was merely serving man'."

Leliana continues as if Hawke has not spoken. "There are rumors about you, dark rumors," she looks cuttingly at Cassandra, who remains resolved. "Fortunately, many of the people who could talk are gone now." Hawke twitches. Fortunately, Leliana says. Many of those who might testify against her are dead. "The others," Leliana goes on, "can be discredited. If they are foolish enough to speak. It will be an easy matter."

"It is unlikely," Cassandra says apologetically, "given the state Kirkwall is in." She looks to Leliana. "We are not presenting a good case. This is not the face of what—" she stops, shakes her head. "Hawke. I have news." She is so severe, so focused that Hawke's heart strains in her chest. Has someone else died…? Is it Aveline? Where's Varric? Where's Isabela? "I am the new Divine."

Leliana smiles tightly. This is what it must look like to see porcelain ready to crack.

"Oh." Hawke's lips part. "Erm—do I bow or… do we throw a party? Perhaps we should keep you away from large gatherings. Or crazy apostates," she says with a grin. Cassandra scowls. Leliana's eyes spark before a hint of a wry smile touches her lips. "Oh, don't worry, I'm not crazy." She doesn't think, anyway. She tries not to think of the time in the Fade. She tries not to think of her nightmares.

Cassandra makes a face of disgust. "Ugh, no parties. I hate those things." Hawke nearly smiles. A moment later Cassandra gives another decisive shake of her head. "I asked for Leliana to be my Right Hand. She refused," her words and look to Leliana are pointed.

Right Hand. Right. Hawke vaguely knows the term. She's never been a very good Andrastian and she doubts anyone would believe her if she pretended to be. The Chantry's practically been destroyed. They all blame her for it.

If Cassandra is trying to guilt Leliana, it isn't working. "The Chantry's position is more dangerous, precarious than ever before. Your election was… contested. While some praise you, others blame you for the near dissolution of the Chantry. They will come after you, Most Holy," Cassandra grimaces, "I will not allow it. You will need a Left Hand who is willing to do what it takes—"

"Please, Leliana, you know I do not like it when you speak that way—"

The way they bicker… "Should I give you two the room and I can be on my way?" Hawke asks. The table has other uses, she supposes. "What does any of this have to do with me?"

"I would like you to be my Right Hand." Cassandra says. Hawke stares at her. She must not have heard her properly. Cassandra's perfectly shaped eyebrows narrow thoughtfully. She wrings her hands. "I knew I should have written this down. Leliana said I might blurt it out. You were right," she says to her. Leliana's smile, for once, is softer. Cassandra returns her attention to Hawke. "You may not be the Inquisitor but you remained a symbol of hope for many during the chaos. The mages admired you, the Templars respected you. The same holds true now. Like the Inquisitor, you fell and have risen again. I cannot say it is Divine Providence but… How many figures can say the same?"

Hawke laughs shortly. "When you put it that way, I suppose I do sound pretty grand. Put any other way—you're a lunatic." Her smile is thin. Leliana glares. Hawke curtsies to Cassandra. It's not a bad one. "Oh, I apologize, I suppose that was rude, Miss Ultimate Holy Perfection—is that the proper way to address you?"

"No," Cassandra and Leliana say crossly, though Hawke suspects it's for different reasons.

She continues. "The Champion of Kirkwall is a symbol of what happens when everything's gone wrong. Everything falls apart. Time and time again. You don't want me around. I'm a curse to those I know and love."

"I am not asking you to love. Only to do what you have always done. And—I humbly ask that you do it in my service," Cassandra moves around the table. "I cannot think of another better suited for the task. I want a new path for the Chantry. Your involvement will show the world that the new Divine does not wish to punish mages for being. That they are welcome in the Chantry. That they are valued and that the Maker loves us all."

Cassandra's gaze is so intense that Hawke takes a step back. She looks to Leliana who seems deep in thought. "I'm left handed," she offers, sputtering for something to say.

"Oh, wonderful," Cassandra's face becomes stonier still. "I see now why Varric defended this one. They are two sides of the same coin."

"I'm prettier," Hawke defends. "But just barely." She can practically see smoke fumes coming off the top of Cassandra's head. "I don't even know what a Right Hand does."

"Go on," Leliana says to Cassandra, before looking at Hawke. "She loves explaining this part."

For a moment the two women stubbornly glare at one another. "Very well. Yes," Cassandra says. "The Right Hand does the same as your own. It gives. It takes. It makes a fist." Hawke smirks. "You will be my voice when I cannot speak. My face when I cannot appear. My eyes when I cannot see."

"Your hand, when you cannot smack," Hawke nods soberly. Both women seem to flinch. The offer is unexpected. For months she has been floundering. Sometimes, she thinks of the Storm Coast. She thinks of walking into the sea. "I had plans to become a wandering drunk," she tells the two, "isn't that what happens to heroes who can't handle the ruthlessness of this cruel world?" She jokes. She thinks she jokes. She is grateful to Varric. She is grateful to her memories. She is crucified by the sacrifices others have made for her. Her eyes glance along the women. She smiles, shrugs. "All right. To the Void with it. I'll be your Right Hand. What else do I have to do?"


	2. Chapter 2

They have returned to Val Royeux. Cassandra may be Divine but there are some traditions that cannot be so easily abandoned. This is where the Grand Cathedral is located after all. Leliana does not doubt that Cassandra holds some fondness for this place, given the work that she did here with the Seekers so many years ago.

Some part of Leliana is happy for their return. There was a time, not so long ago, where she thought she might detest Orlais, Val Royeux and its constant politics. Now she knows this is her rightful place. She enjoys the opulence, The Game. Few can play it better than she and few would dare to try. She has the resources necessary to stamp out any insolence, she has the blessing of the Divine.

Cassandra is not like Justinia. Even if Justinia was ultimately too soft hearted, she did know when matters needed to be addressed. Leliana was her ears, more often, her knife. She ended many lives. She carried that weight with her once but when she found that box, empty in that cathedral, the weight vanished. She has accepted who she is. She is deception. She is death. She will bring the latter to many who oppose her Most Holy. Things will be different this time. Cassandra will have to be kept in the dark. Cassandra is beautiful, bold, righteous but idealistic, weak, unwilling to do the difficult things. She has too much faith, too much hope.

Leliana once had those too. It's what allowed so much hurt in her life. Of course others would come after her, hurt her. She made it so easy. That is not the case anymore. That said, she can still admire those naïve qualities of hope, faith, believing that people are better than they are. Cassandra should champion those ideals. Her innocence is refreshing. Leliana will ensure she keeps it.

Inquisitor Lavellan did not choose Leliana to be the Divine. The Inquisitor is not so bold of a woman. She is not the Warden. She is not Hawke. She feared her as many have, as many others will learn to. It is late at night and Leliana walks the halls of the Grand Cathedral. Despite Cassandra's proclamations, more coin has been poured into it.

This is the grand return of the Chantry. No expense must be spared for the celebration of Divine Victoria. Cassandra knows of the clergy's fickleness. She did stop an assassination orchestrated by one of their own. Yet, she does not go far enough. She still believes that the Chantry can continue, keeping some of its traditions. The Chantry needs a complete overhaul. Divine Victoria's aims are only bandaging a fractured system. Ah, but she has barely started. She will learn.

She walks down the crimson carpet of the audience room. The Sunburst Throne sits empty. The room is blanketed in shadows. Candles burn, making the carpet look like a river of blood spilling from the Sunburst Throne. At least that is honest. She thinks of Justinia. Maybe she did save herself, as Justinia said, but where would she be without her? Marjolaine swindled them both, didn't she? Their hearts were a game to her. Marjolaine has been dead over ten years. There was a time Leliana remembered her kills. In time they faded, all blurring into one another. Marjolaine's remains fresh. The pressure of the knife plunging into her stomach, much like Marjolaine had done to her, before Leliana yanked it out and tore Marjolaine's throat open. Yes. Some piece of her must have died as Marjolaine bled out in that pitiful home. Leliana had loved her so much, even after her betrayal. In the end, Marjolaine's paranoia was justified. Even if Marjolaine let bygones be bygones, Leliana might have deemed it time to pay her a visit. Ten years ago, that thought would have been unthinkable. Now Leliana knows the risk of loose strings.

A sound. She turns sharply, a hand touching the dagger at the small of her back. Steps approach. Soon, she recognizes the figure of The Right Hand: Marian Hawke. The woman seems to always have an insolent smile on her lips. Truthfully, the woman makes her uncomfortable. Ivory skin and flushed lips, ebony hair and cobalt blue eyes. She is the spitting image of Solona Amell. Had Solona not died killing the archdemon in any case. After everything she did, the Maker did not see it fit to save Solona. He let her die. He let Justinia die. Solona was young. If Hawke is any indication, she would have aged well. Some part of Leliana feels…

"Plotting?" Hawke asks.

Everything she says, she seems to say in jest. The woman, like Varric, appears to take very little seriously. It has consternated Cassandra greatly, that the Champion insisted on dragging the dwarf with her to Orlais. He came with them, bitching and moaning the entire way. Hawke likely used his guilt to control the situation. Clever of her. Regardless, Leliana thinks he's happy to see the Champion again. He did not take it well when she was left behind in the Fade. Neither did Isabela. Strange how everything ties together. She has not forgotten her night at the Pearl in Denerim with Solona and Isabela. _It didn't take much to make you sing. _The way Hawke looks at her now, Leliana wonders if she's also been reminded of what they have shared. But it was long ago. Inconsequential.

"Plotting? That would be telling," Leliana smiles, her fingers sliding along the hilt of the dagger and then away entirely. Hawke comes closer, appraising the room. No doubt she finds her new role most curious. An apostate who was made Viscountess when that madman killed Grand Cleric Elthina and countless others. The woman is not a fervent believer and with her life, Leliana does not blame her. Cassandra insists her heart is in the right place. The move was surprisingly shrewd, given how limited Cassandra's thinking can be. Yet she is firm. She insisted over Leliana's objections. "Had you ever been to the Grand Cathedral before your appointment?"

"Your 'research' didn't turn that sort of thing up?" She smirks faintly. "When would I have gone? We were both trapped in Lothering for years." Leliana did not think of it as being 'trapped'. It was a sanctuary for her. How optimistic she had been then. How blind. It must have been different for Hawke. An apostate in a tiny village with a surprising number of Templars. "And then every terrible thing that could have happened, happened. I was too busy tending to Kirkwall to visit Orlais, much less the Grand Cathedral. For all the good it did."

"Without Kirkwall, there would not have been an Inquisition."

"So my screwup is your gain?" She shakes her head. The smile doesn't reach her eyes.

Leliana wonders what it must have been like in the Fade for her. She was gone so long. Months. She returned Tranquil. What must that do to a mind? Was Hawke like her? Did someone raise her up? But who? Cassandra? Cassandra and Cole who undid that terrible violation. One of them, anyway. There must always be a place to start. "All of Thedas benefited from the Inquisition."

"If you say so." She crosses her arms gently. There is red scribbling on her arm. Paint? Lipstick? Blood?

Leliana frowns. "You must remove that." She nods at the markings. Hawke looks down at them and back at her. "You represent Divine Victoria now. You are not Hawke. You are not the Champion of Kirkwall." Another smirk touches Hawke's lips. She is frustrating, like Morrigan sometimes. "You are the Right Hand. You are an apostate. They will judge you and in so doing, they will just Most Holy."

"You really call her that?" she chuckles. "She's not here."

"You must remember to do the same. We are in Orlais. This is not Lothering. This is not Kirkwall. Those places are nothing. You can behave however you please and it is relatively of no consequence. In Orlais, particularly in the Chantry, your words, your actions, can start wars. They already have. You're all wrong for this," she mutters the last.

"Cassandra disagreed."

"Cassandra is naïve."

Hawke shifts her stance, keeping her eyes settled on the Sunburst Throne. "I'm sure you're very happy I'm here." Leliana says nothing. "What did you tell her about me?"

"Enough that she should have known better. You have had dealings with a Dalish blood mage and the man responsible for the Circles rebellions. You killed him. You created a martyr."

"I suppose you would have let him go. Leliana the soft-hearted, they say."

Leliana does not scowl. "There are rumors that you are a blood mage."

"Me? Not at all." She laughs. "With my looks and charm, I can get anything I want. No blood magic necessary." Leliana stares hard at her. Hawke winks. "Are you sure you didn't hear 'nug' magic? I've heard you have quite the penchant for the little beasts."

The next instant Hawke is slammed into the wall. Leliana is on her, the dagger at her neck, pressed tight and cutting. Hawke does not flinch. She does not look alarmed. Is she so brave? So stupid? Is some piece of her Tranquil still? Or does she want this? Does she beg for death? No matter. "You think this is a joke?" she asks. "Do not trifle with me. You have no idea what's at stake. I could finish you here, Champion and you would not be missed. You are no one here. You are nothing outside of Kirkwall. I will not have you—"

The doors to the audience room don't bang open. There is just another presence. "What is the meaning of this?" Cassandra demands. Leliana freezes but Hawke smiles. _Someone's in trouble _her smile says. "Explain. Now."

"I'm awful curious myself," Hawke says. Speaking presses the blade deeper. "I have a theory. I could let Sister Leliana explain—"

Leliana thins her lips, pushes her arm more tightly against Hawke's collarbone before Cassandra physically pulls her away. "Most Holy—" Leliana starts—

"Not that. Not now. Not when it's us," Cassandra says. She looks between the two women. "How are we to lead the people forward when my Left and Right Hands are fighting? Whatever issue you have, get over it. I will not allow this behavior. I expect better of both of you." Hawke wipes a trail of red from her neck. Cassandra looks at Hawke tentatively. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, peachy. Blades to the neck, all too familiar, I'm sad to say. You know, Lady Nightingale, people used to say you were mad. I defended you. But now I wonder—"

"Enough!" Cassandra glares at them both. Leliana is grateful for that, at least. Hawke scratches her neck tentatively. "Hawke, we will speak later. Leliana. Come with me."

Leliana nods stiffly. She follows after Cassandra and glances back. Hawke waves goodbye.

* * *

><p>The Grand Cathedral could hold many Skyholds. It remains as fortifiable, if not more so. The matter with the dragons and mages so many years ago reminded the Chantry just how vulnerable it was. Cassandra's face is clamped tight. She does that. Becomes an unsmiling fortress. She looks so fierce. She is strong but inside she is soft, sensitive. She acts impulsively but her actions haunt her, decisions are turned over and over again in her mind. Leliana does not want for Hawke to be another such regret.<p>

Cassandra leads Leliana to her study. A hexagonal room with Andrastian stained glass. The banner of the Inquisition hangs to the left, a tapestry of the Chantry in the middle and to the right, is her Seeker armor, encased in glass. No doubt she regrets her position, the constant politics. It is easier to simply bash something over the head with the hilt of a sword, to swing a fist than to find tact and diplomacy. They have always been Cassandra's weaknesses. Tact always is for the honest. She'll have to learn. Attacking grand clerics is out of the question for the Divine. That's what the Left and Right Hand are for.

The door clicks shut behind them but Leliana does not let her guard down. That is an impossible task. Those who attack will strike when it is most unexpected. "You are not off the hook," Cassandra says. "Hawke is a newcomer. I understand your reservations." She doesn't. "I know how we went to Kirkwall. I interrogated that damnable dwarf—" She shakes her head. "No matter. She has been found and she has aided us. I want answers, Leliana. Why did I find you in the audience room with a dagger to her throat?"

"I had my reasons."

"Then explain to me. Your reasons are not always my reasons."

Leliana realizes she still holds the dagger in her hand. She slips it into the sheath at her back. Hawke is an apostate. Cassandra has never been a fan. However, if she is a blood mage… the scandal alone could destroy Divine Victoria's rule. Not to mention, Cassandra, in a moment of impulse, could run Hawke through with a longsword herself and sully her Divine regalia. Blood stains are difficult to remove. All these years later and the matter with her brother Anthony needles into her. Beheaded by a blood mage. The risk Hawke potentially poses… Cassandra should have let her take her head. "I had questions. She was being uncooperative."

"Ugh, her and Varric," Cassandra agrees. "Regardless, she is an ally, Leliana. What if it had been someone else who had walked in and seen you? The wars that are caused by simply forgetting to nod at the right clergy members. Can you think of the scandal? They might have chased us out of Orlais. This is the very thing they are looking for in order to denounce us. Any sign of infighting is a danger."

"I know," she says a little too sharply. She knows. She knows better than anyone. "I… apologize, Most Holy." Cassandra frowns at that again. She'll have to grow used to it. She wanted it. She got it. There were other candidates. "It won't happen again."

"Ah, yes. But what does that mean?" Cassandra leans against the desk. When she isn't out attending to her duties, she sticks to her leathers. It must be a second skin to her. She looks ever the warrior. It suits her. "I know you, Leliana. For all I know, you'll be craftier next time. You'll simply eliminate the chance of any witnesses."

Leliana smiles. Cassandra knows her so well. "That's not fair. You know how Hawke disappears. You would blame it on me?" She stands by the desk, a hand touched tentatively to it. "What if I were innocent?"

"You are too clever to be innocent." Cassandra sighs. "Talking to you is like moving around in circles. I see that you are not going to answer my question, so instead, I will say this. You are not to harm her. You are not to use our other agents to harm her, you must not involve yourself in any scheme by action or inaction that will allow harm to come to her. Is that understood?" Leliana purses her lips. Yes. Cassandra knows her very well. She gives a slight nod. "What were you doing in the audience room at this hour of the night?"

She deflects. "What were you?"

"Stopping the murder of the Right Hand, it would seem." She crosses her arms gingerly. "Truthfully, I could not sleep. I never imagined I would be Divine. The notion never crossed my mind. For so many years I watched others clamor for it and it disgusted me. I have seen what a hunger for power will do, how it will corrupt even the most innocent." She glances at Leliana. Leliana likes her eyes. They're rich and warm. Honest eyes. "And now I am here. I would like to think that after all the chaos, people will stop their games and we can focus on a way to move forward. But even I know that corruption is always at hand. Were it not, we would have no need for the Chantry. They will come for me. They will harm innocents. We must not let them."

"I will do everything in my power," she clasps a hand over her heart, "to prevent such a thing from reaching you." Her power is considerable. If she is lucky, Cassandra will think her reign peaceful, will never have an inkling of the forces of nature working against her.

"You will work with Hawke to do it."

"Yes," she says more stiffly, "of course."

"Good." There's a long silence. "I have never asked you. I think…" Another silence. Cassandra practically squirms. This conversation must be over some emotional or political issue that requires diplomacy. Leliana waits. "Lavellan was approached by the Chantry. We were both considered for this position." Leliana's smile is tranquil on her lips. "Do you resent that Lavellan supported me? That I was the one elected?"

There are many things she resents. Many people. Cassandra is not amongst them. Would she have liked to be given the opportunity? Of course. She is brave. She can make difficult decisions that make others stumble. Cassandra looks troubled and nervous. Leliana palms her face. Cassandra glances from the hand to Leliana's face. Leliana suspects Cassandra is unaccustomed to contact. She is so righteous, so good. "Resent you? Never."

"You are not just saying that to spare my feelings?"

Leliana laughs softly. "As if you were so delicate." She is so delicate. "You were chosen, Your Perfection. I would not have agreed to be your Left Hand if I did not support you." She falls delicately to one knee and presses her lips to Cassandra's fingers. "You are the one who will lead Thedas forward. And I will ensure that you never falter."


	3. Chapter 3

The trip to Kirkwall is long, even by carriage. The only mercies allotted to her are that she does not have to wear the Divine's regalia on the journey. As such, she keeps to her leather armor, a longsword at her side. The other mercy is that the blasted dwarf Varric has opted out of riding in the carriage and has taken a horse instead.

Outside of the simple caravan (Leliana's idea to not draw attention), she has Hawke for company. On her neck is a faint red line where Leliana's dagger cut. If the mage has some issue with Leliana, or with her, she has not made mention of it. The woman is quieter than usual, eyes narrowed and far away as they move through the countryside to the Free Marches.

Cassandra has made the trip to Kirkwall several times. To think of how often she has failed in the past. They did not stop Knight-Commander Meredith despite her brutal treatment of mages. Despite her intensive questioning of Varric, she could not make him fess up Hawke's location. To think that she had believed the man, despite his reputation for lying. Maybe she only wanted to think she had done everything she could. Maybe she only wanted to be absolved of blame. So much had to fail in order for Divine Justinia to die at the Conclave. She is culpable for some of those failures. No amount of right she has done or can do will change that.

The trip to Kirkwall is largely a symbolic one. The Chantry and city-state is still in disrepair. Last she heard, the citizens had not recovered from the chaos. At least the rifts have been repaired. That is a start. Who knows how else Kirkwall struggles? To think of what she went through to find Hawke. Could Hawke have prevented all of this and been their Inquisitor? Or would she have died at the Conclave as Varric suggested?

Cassandra could have sworn she saw the woman fall in the Fade and yet she is here, as alive as she is. Hawke looks at her. Her eyes are like bottled lightning. Varric later told her, after his duplicity was revealed, that she had left Kirkwall in order to save it from the terrors of the Exalted March. A noble aim but a thing that ultimately did not come to pass. Cassandra wonders if Hawke regrets her actions. "How does it feel to be returning to Kirkwall?"

"Oh, I don't know. About as good as it felt the first time I made my way there, I suppose."

It is no answer. Leliana was able to confirm Varric's reports that Hawke's apostate sister died on the way to Kirkwall over ten years ago. They fled from the Blight to a city full of Templars. That is an answer after all. "Everything that has happened, happened because of Kirkwall."

"Everyone does like to say that." She smiles, tips her head. "Most Holy," she adds reverently.

"It always seemed strange to me that an apostate would be named viscountess in a place like Kirkwall." The carriage jostles and they both touch the seat for balance.

Hawke laughs softly. "Knight-Commander Meredith would have blamed blood magic."

"And the truth?"

Hawke shrugs. "The truth is, Your Perfection," she always throws in the titles last minute, as if they were an aside, as if forgotten, "that I don't really know how much any of your Seeker friends were in Kirkwall. I ran into 'Lady Nightingale'. She warned us of what might be coming. The Grand Cleric wouldn't listen to her warning. She refused to leave. We all know how that ended."

Yes. Blown up by an apostate. "You still haven't answered the question."

"The Knight-Commander was a bitch. Can I swear around you?" Hawke asks. Cassandra narrows her eyes in thought. "But she wasn't seeing things. There _was_ blood magic everywhere. In the beginning, I thought it a natural response to what the Templars were doing. You get out of line, you got the brand. You saw something you shouldn't see, you got the brand…" she crosses her arms. "It was punitive. Barbaric. Terrifying." Terrifying, she says. But she was made Tranquil. Somehow. What was that like for her? Cassandra will ask. But not now. "But, in time, I realized that some people were just mad. They used blood magic for lofty Tevinter-type goals. Power and such. I never cared for that. And when a blood mage took my mother, did—" the smile on her lips becomes unnatural, "… grotesque things— killed her," her voice is tight, "I was blinded by anger. I no longer felt any sympathy. I helped Knight-Commander Meredith. I helped the Templars."

"I see." Cassandra says. She knew Hawke's mother was dead. Varric did tell the truth about that. Hawke's words make her feel somewhat less guilty of her responsibility to the mages and templars of Kirkwall. They've both been blinded, haven't they, in their hatred for blood mages? "I am sorry to make you speak of it." She nearly tells her of Anthony but it seems selfish, in the moment, to turn the conversation back to her. "Is there any other family to speak of?"

"Not really," she mutters. "An uncle. A cousin. Charade," she smirks at the name. "I had a sister. Ogre got her. And a brother. Carver. He was a shit. He was saddled with me. With me and Bethany. He wasn't a mage but he had to watch over us, just the same, hide. Do you know how tiring it is? To always have to hide?" Once more her eyes are clouded over. Cassandra's never considered the fear apostates must constantly live under. She never cared to. They were safer in the Circle. They brought the difficulty upon themselves. Maybe her thinking was limited. "We always fought. When it came time for the Deep Roads Expedition, Mother begged me to leave him home. I agreed but that turned into another argument, he said he'd earned it and for once, in my life, I agreed with him. He came. He got the blight. He died." Another careless shrug, another careless smile, "whoops."

"You speak of it so lightly," she says heated, "he was your brother."

"Not anymore, he's not." She closes her eyes and tilts her head back. Cassandra wants to slap her. Does family mean nothing to the woman? "If you don't mind, I'd like to get some sleep. If I know Kirkwall, they'll have gathered all the Tevinter Slaver, Magister Maleficarum, Arch demon cunts to spring me a surprise party. Language. Language. I apologize, Most Holy."

She has a filthy mouth. Cassandra watches her. Hawke doesn't let her guard down. She doesn't sleep. She just doesn't want to talk. Cassandra doesn't blame her.

* * *

><p>Kirkwall is rebuilding but mostly it is rubble. Thick black plumes of smoke choke the air. The foundries, Hawke tells her. Varric gauges the damage, his shoulders slumped, lips thinned and turned downward. The day is hot and Cassandra, wearing her regalia, feels as if she will melt in the robe and the surprisingly heavy hat. Hawke walks alongside of her, looking about with interest, with hurt at what has become her city.<p>

"I am to meet with Viscount Bran," Cassandra tells them. Varric and Hawke exchange looks before smiling. "There are those shit—" eating grins. She forgets herself. It is not so easy to transition into this role as she imagined.

"What was that, Seeker?" Varric is steadfast in his refusal to acknowledge her as Divine. From her understanding, he sometimes uses the proper address when she is not around. Of course, that news has been revealed via Leliana. "How can you say prayers with a filthy mouth like that?"

"I'm afraid it's all my bad influence," Hawke says. "I really let her have it in the carriage. I'm not sure she'll ever be pure again."

"Whaaaaat?" Varric looks warily between the two, before Hawke slaps his arm saying 'that isn't what I meant'. "Hrmph. Thanks for clearing up the misunderstanding. The last thing I need is for _you,_" he says pointedly to Hawke, "to get involved with _her. _After everything this zealot put me through to get to you."

"Do not speak about me as if I were not here," Cassandra tells him. Why couldn't Hawke have left the dwarf at Skyhold? She is only happy Leliana is not here. Were she, she might cut off Varric's tongue for speaking in such a way about the Divine. Truthfully, it is the only thing that gives her reservation, correcting those who have known her, about proper manner of address.

"Right, Varric, quite rude. It's only okay to kidnap and hold individuals hostage to question about those who _aren't _near," Hawke smiles at Cassandra who scowls in return. Varric chuckles and Hawke taps his arm gently. He looks up at her good naturedly. "Only 'Most Holy' and 'Your holiness' out in public, all right?" She shuffles uncomfortably. No doubt, when she took the job, she did not anticipate having to correct her best friend. Cassandra is surprised she has made the effort.

Varric frowns. "All right," he grumbles, but he is irritated, perhaps hurt that she has put a stop to their teasing. "Remind me why you agreed to be the Right Hand and I agreed to go with you again? These heartstrings," he rubs his chest thoughtfully, "are going to be the end of me."

"If not that," Hawke says, "arrows or some carta dagger."

"Orlesian balls!" Varric exclaims or suggests. Cassandra gathers it could be either with him. "Anyway, as long as we're here, I'm going to take care of a few things. I'll leave you to your babysitting."

"Babysitting," Cassandra calls after him, "that is not—"

Hawke looks at her, a twinkle in her eye. "Oh, you're _fun. _I see why he adores you."

"What?" Is it sarcasm?

* * *

><p>Viscount Bran is a sniveling, simpering man. To think that the viscountship went from the Champion of Kirkwall to him. Hawke has shared little about him save that all he cares for is the reputation of the city, how matters affect the people's perception of the viscount. Politics. Reconstruction efforts are not as far along as they should be and some say that is this man's fault. Cassandra has yet to see the chantry up close but even from a distance she can see fragments of stained glass, scattered like diamonds throughout the city. The towers and steeple are blown out. No one walks near it.<p>

"Why has the chantry not been rebuilt?" Cassandra asks. The mage rebellions started in Kirkwall. The templars here were the first to rebel. They put the few remaining mages in the city to the sword, they killed those who spoke for them, aided them, before abandoning the city entirely. "Kirkwall more so than many others, needs a sanctuary for the faithful, for those in need of refuge. Had the chantry been given the necessary attention, the necessary resources, the Templars could have had guidance, the chaos might have been controlled."

Hawke remains by the door, arms crossed, a mocking smile on her lips. "Yes, Bran, what in the world were you thinking? Perchance you were hoping to have a stroke of Serendipity?"

"You're blaming me?" he sputters, moving around the desk and ignoring Cassandra altogether. "You're the one who created this mess! An apostate Viscountess! I don't know what the Templars or the people were thinking! Do you think this has been easy? You didn't clear out all the bodies," he jabs a finger at Hawke and looks to Cassandra, "and there were more buried. My priority was to keep the citizens of Kirkwall safe from templar attacks, rebel mage attacks—mages who came here because of that martyr," his voice raises on the last word, "that you created."

"On the other hand," Hawke says, "I did prevent a war with a pissy Starkhaven prince."

"What?" he waves her remark away. "With so many dead, disease has spread like wildfire. Many die by the day. There are no healers, there are no potions. Our commerce is all but destroyed, the people are starving. And until recently, we were battling demons, pouring from the sky! You'll excuse me if I don't use the few resources we have to rebuild the chantry. Perhaps if Grand Cleric Elthina—"

Cassandra jumps to her feet, the hat nearly slipping off her head in the process. Her fists are balled. How dare he? How dare he blame the Grand Cleric for a madman's actions that resulted in the loss of her life?

Hawke catches her eye and moves forward, separating the two. Maker, give her strength. She has nearly assaulted the Viscount of Kirkwall. News of the attack would no doubt spread throughout all of Thedas. Her new mission centered on love, on unity, would seem to the world a joke. "This hasn't been easy," Hawke says to him. Bran stands straighter, his glare cutting into them. "No doubt I would have focused my efforts, as you have, on the people. But perhaps there's another way. I saw the specialized guards you have waiting in the hall. I'm surprised you could get them. They're renowned all over Thedas and they're worth a fortune." The color rises up his face, making him nearly as scarlet as his hair. "I don't blame you for hiring on protection. The Viscounts in Kirkwall have not been so lucky. I should know. But _perhaps," _she suggests, "if you set aside some of those guards, take the best of the city-guard on for protection instead, there might be some coin to aid in the recovery of the chantry. As you know," she says with a smile as if there is a joke between them, "where there are chantries, there is coin."

"I would be able to secure some aid for Kirkwall," Cassandra volunteers, though honestly she'd still prefer to slam a fist into his face. "The Chantry is moving in a new direction. We could send you templars, lay brothers and sisters, mages, for healing."

"It's a way to get Kirkwall back on its feet," Hawke says, a hand on his shoulder. "We would only ask that you open the chantry anew. A new chantry, for a new world, for a new Kirkwall. One of unity and harmony." She glances back at Cassandra, winks. Cassandra frowns. She is too playful. "Are we agreed?"

"Templars? Mages? In this city again?" he asks. "The tensions are so high—"

"It's nothing you can't handle," Hawke coos. Her hand on his shoulder squeezes, until his face begins grow red again. "There are far more dangerous foes than mages and templars." Her fingers tighten more so. "I'm sure we have an agreement."

Of course he agrees. She all but had a knife to him.

* * *

><p>They make their way through the chantry debris. The statue of Andraste has had her head blown off. Disgusting. Blood has stained much of the banners, the pews that remain, staircases. Blood and black char. Hawke forges ahead, turning her head to the left, to the right, as if hearing something Cassandra cannot identify.<p>

Does she hear something? Is it only the memory of the chantry explosion? Of her ears ringing? Hawke stops. Pale sunlight streams into the chantry, illuminating countless dust particles. Despite the heat of Kirkwall, the air is different here. It is cold, nearly frigid. Her breath wisps in the air. Something is wrong here. The Veil is likely thin, given the loss of life.

Being in a chantry makes her think of Leliana. It is strange not having her near. If she had agreed to be her Right Hand, they would be closer, but she did not. It is Hawke who will be her constant companion, when she is away from Val Royeux. "Why did Leliana have a dagger to your neck?" Cassandra asks.

Leliana never answered the question and soon all of Cassandra's duties made it impossible to meet with Hawke. How odd that she had forgotten the occurrence until now.

"She didn't tell you?"

"I'm asking you."

"Do you know what happened here?" Hawke asks.

"Is that a serious question?"

"I don't know what you know of Anders. He was… a passionate man. I once admired him. As an apostate, you live a life of shame. Your blood ruins families. I suppose my family could have turned me in to the Circle but they didn't. All the abuse that happens there… my parents wouldn't. So when I met Anders and he spoke so forcefully of the freedom mages should have, of the rights we deserve…" she shrugs gently. "It was nice."

"Yet you killed him."

"Sure. He was a lunatic. In the end. He had a spirit in him. A spirit of Justice," she smiles.

"A demon."

"I'm not sure. Possibly. He told me Justice had become something more. That he had corrupted it. But you hear that. A spirit of justice. How could that possibly be a bad thing?"

"Justice is blind. Justice can be indignant, unforgiving."

"He thought … he told me… that he had found a way to separate himself from it."

"How?"

"He wanted my help getting a few things. I trusted him. I helped him. And he used it. For this." Hawke faces her. Cassandra pales. Varric had left that piece out. Of course he had, the little shit! Cassandra wondered why Hawke had told her the story, had avoided her question. Now she knows. Did Leliana know? Is that why she put a knife to her throat? She's half tempted to do it herself. "I thought you should know. I suppose I could have told you earlier, but it doesn't have the same effect when you're not _here. _I couldn't hear clearly for a week after it happened." She removes the curved dagger from her back. The blade is curious and wavy, the tip sharp. The hilt is a golden snake. It looks Rivaini. A gift, perhaps, from her former lover. She holds the blade and offers it to Cassandra. "If you want to finish Leliana's work. As for this whole Right Hand, business, I understand Vivienne was… unhappy, she was overlooked."

Cassandra stares at the blade, looks back at her. Some part of Cassandra wants to take her up on her offer. Anders asked for Hawke's help and she granted it. She truly is the force behind everything that has happened. Cassandra takes the dagger, the golden snake of the hilt biting and cold in her hand.

"I am very sorry," Hawke says, her voice stripped of its usual coyness. "All I ever wanted was to help. To keep others safe. All I ever wanted was for people to not look at us as monsters. I have…" she turns her head again as if someone has just spoken to her. "I have caused a great deal of hurt."

Cassandra steps forward, the blade in hand. She extends it to her. Hawke doesn't immediately take it. _"The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, and boasts not, nor gloats, over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight, in the Maker's laws and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction." _Hawke is still. "I will not judge you. I believe that in your heart, you did your best. I may have done the same. The people of Kirkwall, the Knight-Commander would not have raised you up if it were otherwise."

"People raise up asshats all the time," Hawke murmurs. "Look at Bran."

Cassandra takes Hawke's hand, secures the hilt safely within, closing Hawke's fingers around it. "You did not ask for it, but I forgive you. Try better. Try harder. There is not one of us, without sin, who is perfect."

Hawke smiles palely. "Save for you, Your Perfection," she bows, eyes on Cassandra's. She appears sincere. Cassandra's fingers pull unknowingly at the Divine regalia. Where has the cold gone? It is far too hot.

* * *

><p>AN: Switching up the author's notes! Thanks for the positive feedback, everyone. The Kirkwall chapter turned out a little longer than expected (and there's another to follow). We'll make our way to smut eventually, I'm sure!


	4. Chapter 4

Kirkwall is a testament to her failure. The city-state is like a hydra. She would cut off the head of one problem, only to have two spring up in its place. On and on it went until finally it collapsed in on itself. It had never been her intention to return to Kirkwall. Seeing it like this is almost more than she can bear.

Hawke wonders what her family would think of her position as the Right Hand of the Divine. Her family was never particularly Andrastian. _Perhaps that's why they're all dead now and you are left alone. _She doesn't want to believe that. It seems unjust.

Behind her, she hears the grinding of a hinge, gone unoiled for far too long. A glance back reveals Aveline, thinner than before, a smile on her face. For the moment they forget jokes and pretense. Aveline wraps her arms tightly around her in a bruising embrace. "Thank the Maker you're alive," she says. "I thought I'd never see you again."

Is it the Maker she has to thank? Hawke returns Aveline's hug. She stares at the graves of her mother, Bethany and Carver. Aveline reminds her family is more than blood. She has Aveline. She has Varric. She tells herself it's the same.

* * *

><p>Aveline and Cassandra size one another up before sharing what is surely a bone crushing handshake in the Captain of the Guard's office. "It is an honor," Aveline, who was also never particularly Andrastian, shares.<p>

"The honor is mine," Cassandra says. "I have it on good authority that you are a big reason Kirkwall is still standing. Varric and the Champion speak highly of you."

Does everyone forget she has a name? "Hawke and Varric speaking highly of me?" Aveline considers that, looking dubiously at Hawke. "Maybe something happened to your head in the Fade," she shivers, "never much liked that place myself."

"A sentiment we both share," Cassandra nods, "Mankind was never meant to dwell there. It is not right."

The conversation makes Hawke uncomfortable. They've spent hours in the Fade. They don't know what it is to live it, become one with it, be constantly confounded with the individuals you've met there, to have to question your every vision. It is to have your sanity tested over and over again, it is to relive every painful memory, to see it clear as day before you, to have it corrupted until it fills you and you can't escape it. "Speaking of not right," Hawke says chipperly to Cassandra, "do you know that Aveline is the inspiration for Swords and Shields?" She watches both women's face go red. "Varric tells me you love it."

"I—" Cassandra stammers, "that is—I do not know—"

"That bastard published those books?" Aveline asks, appalled. "That little shit," she and Cassandra say the last at the same time.

At least the attention is off her.

* * *

><p>The Hanged Man has not changed terribly, outside of the absence of Corrf and Norah. The swill remains disgusting and despite the many dead citizens of Kirkwall, the tavern is full enough with patrons. Hawke looks around. No Anders, no Fenris, No Merrill or Sebastian, no Carver, No Isabela. There is Varric, setting up a game of Diamondback at one of the larger tables. He raises a hand and waves her over.<p>

"What does he want?" Cassandra asks. Once again she's shed her Divine regalia for her simple leather armor. Hawke doesn't blame her for not wanting to run around in the cumbersome clothing at all times, for not wanting to be identified. She still has that luxury. She is the new Divine and there is no reason to expect that she would be in Kirkwall. If only Hawke could disappear in much the same way.

There are whispers everywhere. They still know she's the Champion of Kirkwall. There was a time when it was impossible for her to get any peace and quiet. Now some look at her warily. Perhaps they blame her for everything that has happened. "He wants us to join him for a game," Hawke tells her and watches Cassandra's long nose crinkle in distaste. "It might be fun."

"I have heard tales of this Hanged Man," Cassandra says warily, looking around. "It is said that only highly suspect individuals come here. I am inclined to believe it given Varric's fondness."

"He is no more fond than I am."

"Perhaps you are suspect as well."

Hawke doesn't know if she's joking. Is the woman capable of joking? Or has Leliana filled her head with this thing, with that thing. She wonders if the two are screwing. A pretty picture that and she can't think of any other two who might benefit more from such a union. "When I first arrived at Kirkwall, Carver and I worked with smugglers. We became well known, in all the wrong circles," she smiles.

"Yes, Varric told me."

Hawke sighs. "It seems you know everything about me. This is going to be a very dull relationship." A line touches Cassandra's forehead. "So, how do I get to know you better? I know you love smutty literature," she grins, "so there's one point in your favor," she ignores Cassandra's blush, "how else do I get to know you? Do I go to Leliana and have her find me a friend of yours? Drag her or him to some home and question them about all the details in your life?"

Cassandra scoffs. "Good luck. I do not think there is any individual you might turn up. I do not have many friends," she says mostly as an aside, her fingers moving anxiously through her cropped hair.

"Well, why don't you?"

"Ask Varric. I am sure he has some ideas." She crosses her arms. "Some say that I am brash. And direct."

"And violent," Hawke offers. She laughs. "I thought you were going to run Bran through earlier. I would have paid several sovereigns to see that."

"Yes, a luxury I am no longer afforded. That is why you're here."

"To be your Hand," Hawke says with a nod. She wiggles her fingers. "A hand has many uses," she winks, stands and moves upstairs to the bedrooms.

* * *

><p>The door is locked but a pinch of force magic and the lock flies off. Hawke pushes the door opens and tries to remember how to breathe. It is no longer Isabela's room, insofar as she can tell. There was always a sort of tidiness to it that would appear as messy to the untrained eye. Hawke goes to the bureau and runs her finger along the top. It comes away dusty and she sighs, thinking of Isabela's perfumes, the coins carelessly scattered.<p>

As the years passed they spent more time here. Their lovemaking never grew dull, only more exciting as they learned more of one another. There isn't a surface in the room where they didn't fuck. Now Isabela is gone. All of it is gone. What she has are her memories. No love. Only a hole where it once was, a mourning for what once was. She can't even cry about it. It's… wrong.

She sits on the bed, blank. It took so long to peel away every strip of armor from Isabela. She promised her things that she bankrupted when she was left behind in the Fade. Which is a pity given how long it took for Isabela to open herself up to her. Emotionally. Would it have been different if she hadn't offered to fight Nightmare? Or would Lavellan have left her behind anyway? The door, left unclosed, creaks open further.

Hawke gets to her feet, expecting Isabela. Stupid. It's Cassandra. Hawke takes a step back as if her appearance were an assault. Cassandra looks around the room as if it were a puzzle. The room is plain. Without Isabela in it, there is no merit to the room, no meaning.

"Why are you hiding away in this empty room?" Cassandra asks. There's a moment. "I take it this holds some significance for you."

She isn't sure how to answer the question truthfully. _Does_ it hold significance for her anymore? Or is it only her memories that make it worthwhile? "It was Isabela's room," she tells her. It's an answer, a safe one when she's unsure of how to respond. "But now it's nothing. Just a room."

"She wasn't in Skyhold long. I expect she was happy to see you."

"For some minutes, perhaps," Hawke shrugs. It seems that she is always shrugging, always trying to make things mean less than they do. "I know how you and Aveline feel about the Fade," she says quietly as if others might hear, as if she is blaspheming. Whatever else she is going to say, she bites back. She isn't sure how to speak of that Place where she lived. Where she possibly died.

"What was it like there for so long?" Cassandra gives the door a gentle push behind her. It clicks shut. Hawke keeps her jaw clenched carefully. "I do not know. I cannot imagine. When you returned to us…" she closes her eyes for a moment. "It seemed as if you had been through so much." Hawke finds no words for her. "Do you remember it?"

"Yes."

"Do you want—"

"No," she says sharply. Then gives a small shake of her head, followed by a smile. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Why did you and Isabela part ways?"

Hawke laughs softly. "Something Leliana hasn't told you? How remarkable. What must it feel like to ask a question and not know the answer? You'll forget soon enough. Your Left Hand, your Right Hand, will take care of all of that."

"I have pried. I am sorry. I did not mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset." The fireplace, cold and barren before, jump to life. Cassandra looks to it and then to her, frowns. "I'm smiling," Hawke points to her face as if she's just done a magic trick, "how could I be upset? What have I to be upset about?" The embers in her voice spark and bristle.

"You are not fooling me."

"No? What a pity. I hear that's fairly easy." Hawke doesn't miss how Cassandra's jaw tightens, the way her earthy eyes look away, lips thinning. "Here I am! The Champion of Kirkwall! All your hopes and dreams answered. I'm very happy for you."

"What is the matter? If you think I will stand here and listen to you insult me—" She shakes her head. "What is the matter?" she asks again, more desperately, at a loss. "Do not try to tell me you are not upset. The blind could see it all over you."

Hawke paces, fingers clenching and unclenching, the smile tight on her face, painful. "What is this? Practice for when the idiots in charge of Thedas come to you, begging to be forgiven for their sins? And you'll forgive them, won't you? While their coin fills your pockets."

"Hawke," Cassandra steps closer, her voice a warning.

For an instant, Hawke thinks the woman will slap her. For an instant, longer, she wants her to. "You want my confession?" Their eyes lock. Hawke doesn't see the Divine. She sees a warrior. One who will smite her if she continues to backtalk her. "Fine. I'm upset that I'm _not_ upset. I'm upset that the woman I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with, left me, because I came back _different_. Because I came back _changed_. Because I came back without any love in my heart. And don't think I don't know how you and Leliana talk about me. Don't think I did not see the faces in Skyhold, as if they had just seen the dead rise. I'm _upset, _because I can **_feel _**again and I have to remember, every single little detail of what happened to me, from the moment I walked out of the Fade and I got to Skyhold. Those feelings flow through me like a sickness. I'm _upset, _because I saw my family butchered over and over again in the Fade. I'm **_upset _**because Isabela has left me and I'm **_glad _**because everything I love, everything I touch turns to ashes. Maybe now she's safe without me. And if she's not, if they kill her, like they've killed everyone else, I won't care. I hope I won't care." There's a beat. "It was better to be Tranquil."

She brings a hand to her mouth. If only she'd silenced herself. If only she'd kept it in. Talking about it doesn't feel better. Her eyes sting.

"You regret that I reversed the rite of Tranquility," Cassandra says, her voice disbelieving. She walks haltingly and moves to the window, planting her hands on the pane and looking out. "That is…" she laces her hands and rests her forehead against them.

Hawke doesn't know if she's praying. Whether she's praying or full of doubt. Who does the Divine pray to? The Maker? The same Maker that took the previous Divine? The same Maker that took her cousin, the Hero of Ferelden? The very same who let everyone in her family die. _Or maybe it was you. Maybe you weren't good enough. You let Isabela down. You let Varric down. Cassandra down. Your family down. Kirkwall down._

She laughs at the thought, lets it hitch in her throat.

* * *

><p>Red lyrium spreads over the ground of the Gallows like roots and veins, pulsing red with life. There's a song in the air. It's beautiful. Hawke moves forward, beckoned. There are whispers in her ear, all around her, filling her. The song rises, rises, beautiful, deafening until she is before her: Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard.<p>

_Look at what your pride has wrought, _Meredith whispers.

Meredith. How curious. How does she speak? How can she speak…? Hawke stoops in front of the lyrium husk that was the Knight-Commander, turns her head slowly from side to side to stare at it. Meredith's eyes seem to burn even now. Hawke reaches out, her fingers searching. The hand is jerked back before she can make contact.

She is pulled back, tugged, yanked, but is unable to take her eyes off Meredith. The slap lands hard on her face, the song that filled her head coming to an abrupt end. Cassandra stares at her furiously. "What is the matter with you?"

* * *

><p>The carriage rattles as it lumbers its way back to Val Royeux. Cassandra sits opposite of her, stone-faced. Hawke listens to the patter of rain on the carriage. It's soothing. A small chest rests on the floor beside her foot. She went to the estate and gathered what she was previously unable to take in her haste. A manual Carver had on swordwork, a portrait of her mother, some of Isabela's friendfiction, some of Varric's works, some of Merrill's tomes.<p>

Things have been tense between her and Cassandra. Hawke doesn't know how to fix it. She said things that shouldn't have been said. They are things that can't be taken back. She is grateful to Cassandra for reversing the Tranquility. She is grateful, except late in the night when she can't sleep, when she is alone and the memories take her. "So… all in all… successful trip?" Cassandra gives her a look that could dissolve stone. "Maybe this was a wake-up call. Maybe you deserve someone better for a Right Hand." Cassandra only shifts in her seat. "Right. Cold shoulder. I prefer it when you're flustered and awkward."

"Shut up, Hawke. You are not so charming as you think."

"Now that's just cruel." Hawke shuts up. For a minute. "Should I get Varric?" she pulls open the curtain and peers out. It's a cold, rainy and stormy night. "We can switch places. All things considered he's probably preferable right now to—" she stops, sees a figure in the woods, through the burst of lightning. She sits up, hands Cassandra her longsword, wraps her fingers around her staff, ebony with the figure of three hissing snakes sprouting from it. A souvenir from Orsino, left behind after all this time, in the Gallows.

"What's wrong?" Cassandra demands.

"Be on your guard. I saw something." The carriage soon comes to a stop. Hawke knocks on the small window to the front but gets no response. "Right. Free Marches. Close enough to Kirkwall where my fine luck can bite us in the ass. Stay here, Most Holy," with a burst of energy she's out into the night. Fat, heavy rain drenches her immediately.

It's hard to see anything. She lifts a hand, summoning an orb of fire, letting it hang in the air. Their cavalry is gone. "Varric?" Fear shoots through her. She takes several steps through the muddy ground. The horses have run off. The coachman is dead. She hears Cassandra calling, asking what's wrong. "Stay there!" she shouts back.

A moment later she spots him. The blood in her veins freezes. She trips, sliding on the mud and crashing hard on her knee. She crawls and slides the last few feet to him. He's staring up at her, lips moving soundlessly. An arrow juts out of his chest. Oh. Maker. Oh. No. No. No. "Asleep on the job?" she asks. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She looks around. "I'll take care of this," he shakes his head and she fights to pull him to a sitting position. He's surprisingly heavy. "Varric, you have to help me—"

"Seeker—" he rasps. Hawke looks back. Maker. Seven of them, around the carriage, black as shadows, blades drawn. "Go, I'll be—" he coughs.

Hawke gets to her feet, draws from within her, summons the mana that comes up hot as lava, sharp as nails. She outstretches the staff. A force hurtles forward, taking the leg of one of the figures, the arm and shoulder of another, clean off. With a growl she races forward. She hasn't fought since returning. It's different. There's something else, something that channels through her, something powerful. She takes a breath, ignores the screams and the blood turning the mud a red clay color. She whips the staff to the side and a ball of flames engulfs two of the attackers, sending them screaming and shrieking into the forest. Another is on the roof of the carriage, a rogue wielding duel daggers. Her blades strike into the ceiling, tearing it open, while another of the attackers looks to fight with the door. He gets it.

The door is kicked open. Cassandra comes out, a terror in white, sword swinging, lopping off the offending attacker's arm before burying the blade deep into his belly. She grunts, pushing against him in the slippery battlefield until he falls over. "Varric?" she demands.

"He's—" Hawke doesn't have a moment to answer. The rogue on the roof jumps down, slams into Cassandra. The two struggle. Hawke can't hit the assailant with a spell. She may as well kill Cassandra herself. Withdrawing the knife from her back she buries it into the rogue's back. The rogue throws an elbow back, slamming it into Hawke's face and Cassandra is able to crawl back a few inches before the rogue lunges again.

Hawke throws herself at the woman, stabbing her again before grabbing a hold of her hair, yanking her head back and cutting her open ear to ear. _Smile! _A fountain of blood sprays hot all over Cassandra before Hawke stands and throws the dead rogue to the side breathlessly. "Are you all right?" Cassandra nods, though as if in a trance, "Hey," Hawke kneels beside her, slaps her face lightly, "are you hurt? Did she get you? Any of them?"

"No. No," she shakes her head, shaken. "Maker help us, Varric!" They rush to him. Hawke props him up again, best as she can but it's a struggle. He must be big boned. "Who could have done this?"

"Are you sure you didn't send them for revealing your love of Swords and Shields?" Hawke asks. Varric manages a thin, pained smile.

Cassandra glowers. "We will have to take his jacket off."

"Oh, perfect," Hawke says, "I've been dying to get his clothes off for ages," she chatters nervously, "this is the perfect excuse." Varric chuckles, hangs his head, closes his eyes. She grabs his chin, makes him face her. "Come on Varric. Come on. Stay awake." She helps Cassandra, best as she can, to remove the jacket. "Who will write smut for Divine Victoria if you die?"

"Rivaini?" he offers with a cough.

"Will you stop?" Cassandra hisses.

He opens his eyes blearily. "Maker, Seeker," Varric pants, taking in her blood soaked face. "Didn't she tell you to stay in the carriage? You're just not happy unless you're attacking someone." Cassandra seems to take a grim satisfaction pushing the arrow through. He screams. Hawke's never heard him scream before. And then he closes his eyes.

Hawke stares at him. "Varric?" she whispers. "Varric."

Cassandra yanks the arrow free from him and throws it aside. She looks at Hawke, grabs her arm. Speaks only after touching her face, making sure she is meeting her eyes, understanding. "It is all right. He has only passed out. I expect with some potions and some of your healing, he will recover." Hawke nods once and then again. He will recover. Yes. "Look at him, asleep like a child, the fool." But her face is soft and relieved.

* * *

><p>Varric is recuperating. No doubt, being back in Val Royeux has done nothing for his spirits.<p>

Hawke wonders if she did the right thing, asking Varric to come with her. The thugs they have encountered before (Corypheus not withstanding) are no match for the charlatans that will continue to come after the Divine. Why the Void did she sign on for this? Has she gone mad? Does she just like being unhappy? It was a mistake agreeing to this.

She can't be the Right Hand. She _won't _be the Right Hand. Let someone else do it. Someone who actually believes in all this nonsense. Her resignation should be an easy matter. Leliana doesn't like her and she doubts Cassandra is a fan after what happened in Kirkwall. She'll leave. She'll make up some excuse that won't reflect badly on Divine Victoria. She'll disappear. It would be nice to disappear.

She ensures her armor is in place in case Cassandra decides to meet her resignation with a fist to the face. Not that she has a helmet. _Blast._ Once she is assured she is fit for battle she knocks on the door to her study. There are the murmur of voices inside. Eventually the door opens. Ah, Leliana of the wintry eyes. Of course. She steps aside and Hawke enters. Seeing Cassandra is a reminder of the encounter. Hawke's nose and lips are still somewhat swollen and tender after the hit she took. Her healing magic isn't what it used to be. Perhaps she need only ingest more lyrium. Perhaps it's something that will return to her with the voracity of before with some practice. She isn't sure.

"How could you be so careless?" Leliana starts as soon as the door is closed. "It is your duty to mind the dangers to our Most Holy. And yet you allowed an attack like this to happen. Varric was nearly killed and Divine Victoria—"

"Leliana," Cassandra sounds tired. She's dressed in the Divine's regalia once more, though the hat sits off to the side on the desk. The robe is white and impeccable. It makes Hawke relieved to see it so clean and pure. "I do not wish for the two of you to fight."

Hawke chomps at Leliana, smirks. "So much bark. So little bite."

"I'll show you my bite," Leliana says darkly.

"You wish."

"Enough!" Cassandra says. "You two are like children. Must you start this the moment you encounter one another? Hawke did a fine job—all things considered—"

"I disagree," Leliana crosses her arms. "The Sunburst Throne is barely warm and you were nearly assassinated."

"Maybe," Hawke agrees, "and what knowledge did we have of it? What of your spy network, Leliana? Did they all take a vacation? And what of you? Did you take a nap?" Her voice rises, anger, unexpectedly, with it. "Were you out playing games instead of doing your job?"

"I said enough!" Cassandra slaps a hand down on the desk. "I already have enough to govern. You are both grown. Act like it. Stop this bickering. Is that understood?" Hawke and Leliana are mirrors of one another, arms crossed. "What matters is that the assassination attempt was not carried out. Leliana. I want you to investigate, find out who could have targeted me. I do not trust this to anyone else."

Leliana clasps a hand over her heart, nods meekly.

Hawke is barely able to stop from rolling her eyes. "Your Perfection," Hawke clasps her hand over her heart, as Leliana has done, and does not miss the ire in the other woman's face. "May I have a word with you?" her eyes flick to Leliana. "In private."

Cassandra looks between the two of them. "Is this not something that can be said in Leliana's presence? There are not to be secrets between the three of us."

"I'm afraid it's for your ears only, Your Perfection. Sorry," not sorry, "Sister Nightingale."

"If that is your wish, Most Holy," Leliana says, "I shall depart."

Cassandra gives a small nod. Leliana bows and leaves. Hawke's only sad there's no one around to high five over the small victory. Hawke goes to the door and makes sure it is shut and locked. Cassandra looks at her cautiously. "You two are driving me mad with the titles," Cassandra confesses, reclining against the desk. "It is not a bidding war." Hawke smiles faintly. How little she knows. "Your face is looking better."

"Did it look bad before?"

"I can't say it has," she looks away, frowning, "well then, will you get on with it? Part of me thinks you have nothing for me, and only wanted to part company with Leliana."

"That would be _terribly _immature."

"Yes. And we all know you are the patron saint of maturity. The two of you must stop taking these pot shots at each other. It is more tiring than you know."

Hawke smiles again. "Then, you will be pleased to no end, to hear that I am here to grant that very wish." Cassandra stares at her blankly. Hawke is filled with uncertainty. She drops to one knee. "I'm resigning my post as Right Hand."

"What?" Cassandra stands straighter. "Why?" She pushes away from the desk. "No, you're not."

"Yes," she says irritably, "I am."

"But why? Because you argue with Leliana?"

"No. It has nothing to do with Leliana." A beat. "Only a little to do with Leliana," she admits.

"Then what is your real reason? And get up, stand, before I accidentally slam a knee into your face." Cassandra paces.

Hawke, not wanting to risk further face injury, acquiesces. "I should never have agreed to this in the first place," she says. "I don't know why I did. I think I was… I think I was lost," she tells her, though Cassandra stands still. "I think I still am. I can't be your Right Hand. I'm not…" she can't talk about it, even now, when trying. She shifts subjects. "My opinion on the Maker—you'd kill me just to hear it." Cassandra stops. "You want to build chantries to him. You want to sing his name in praise."

"I am not Leliana," she nearly snarls, "I do not sing."

"Regardless," Hawke lifts her arms helplessly. "I'm not here for the right reasons. Right!" she chuckles. Cassandra is not impressed. "I either don't believe in the Maker or… or maybe I just think…" the red flush of anger crawls up Cassandra's cheeks. Hawke's shoulders slump. "And now I've roped poor Varric into this. He was nearly killed._ You_ were nearly killed."

"You're frightened."

"I'm not frightened."

"You are," Cassandra says certainly. "You thought you had lost everything. There can be comfort in that. And now you have discovered that there is more that can be lost. I have also known loss. My parents were murdered. My brother was also killed, by a blood mage," the words are hot and angry, "Divine Justinia is dead. One of the very few friends I had, the only lover I have ever taken, also died at the Conclave." Hawke bites her tongue. "And Leliana," she goes on, "have you any idea what she's lost? She has had more pain than me, nearly as much as you. Her Hero of Fereldan was also taken from her, while stamping out the Blight. This world is not fair. I cannot claim to know how the Maker works."

"So it's all a test. Great. I've failed it. I'm a lousy Andrastian. How can we love a god that tests us by killing everything we hold dear?"

"Because he loves us all, despite that, despite our sins. Because he brings eternal life to those who pass, to those who have lived a righteous life."

Hawke glowers. The candles in the room flicker. Cassandra looks at them. Looks at her. Did she not live a righteous life? Was being an apostate enough to damn her? Her methods, enough to damn her? Despite the results? "Sorry. I can't help you." She turns.

Cassandra grabs her arm. Hawke stills. "I know that you owe me nothing. I know that you resent my treatment of Varric. I know you are scared. You are filled with regret. You question your every decision, no matter how decisively you act. I know what that is like. I know how lonely it is. Despite that, you have changed all of Thedas. You may not have been the Inquisitor but I believe you were chosen. I believe the Maker brought you out of the Fade. Brought you back to us."

"You thought that about the Inquisitor. It was all rubbish."

Cassandra's grip loosens. "I still believe in a higher power. And I am sorry for what you have suffered. I am sorry if my actions caused you hurt. I understand if you cannot stand my presence. But, Hawke. I do not know what I am doing. The confidence I show to the world is a mask. I need Leliana. I need you to help me. I fear for Thedas if we do not succeed. Please."

Hawke squares her jaw, swallows hard, faces her. "Leliana had a point. I nearly got you killed."

"You saved me. You saved Varric. Leliana is… overprotective."

"For good reason." She sighs. Paces. Why can't she ever rest? Why can't she leave all of this behind? Maybe she is afraid. Of losing others. Of losing them when she might have done something. "I want to say something," she mutters. Cassandra nods, looks apprehensively. "I don't know how I got out of the Fade. All I have are…" shards of memories. But even those, she's unsure whether they're real or imagined. "Isabela was right. I came back… different. There's something…" Missing. Dead. Ruined? Changed. Added? "I don't know. When I entered the Fade, my greatest fear was Tranquility. It probably would have been my family dying, but you know, once those were knocked out of the way, it was Tranquility. Having my… … whoever, whatever it is that makes us us—"

"Your soul."

Hawke doesn't know if she agrees. "Whatever. Having that taken away. I didn't mean what I said at the Hanged Man. I can't have meant it. That would mean…"

Cassandra takes her hand. "I think I understand."

"I'm sorry. I was…" she bites her lip, looks down at their hands, their fingertips brush. "I'll stay as your Right Hand." Cassandra nods, relieved. "I'll try better. I'll try harder." As Cassandra said. As Hawke has said she would be. How can she believe it now? How can she be it now? She doesn't know. She must find a way.

"I believe you. I… thank you. I know it is not easy."

"It's never easy," Hawke murmurs. Their fingers separate and it leaves Hawke bereaved. She leans forward, brushing a careful kiss onto Cassandra's left cheek, feeling the divot where the scar is beneath her lips. She presses another kiss to her right cheek. Cassandra's skin is flushed and warm. Hawke's lips hover over Cassandra's. The Divine takes an unsteady breath.

It's enough time for guilt to worm its way into Hawke, unexpected, unwelcome, jarring just the same. Isabela. Isabela whom she doesn't love anymore. Isabela whom she should love still. Hawke steps back, a hand clasped over her chest, bowing. "Your Grace." It's the wrong form of address. Her heart is unsteady. She's dizzy. She's not thinking straight. She gets to the door, fumbles with it, remembers the lock before she exits fast, past Leliana, away from Cassandra.

* * *

><p>AN: The story is getting longer. Apologies! Leliana has the next fat chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks everyone, for the really positive feedback! You guys spoil me. THIS chapter is rated M (for mature).

Edits! Thanks, without a farmhouse!

* * *

><p>Leliana can't recall the last time she felt so blind.<p>

Weeks have passed since the attempted assassination of the Divine in the Free Marches and Leliana still has no concrete leads on who might have orchestrated it. All her eyes and ears have turned up nothing. It keeps her up at night. It matters less how it makes her network look and more about the possible repercussions.

She had always known this would be a far more difficult task than what she accomplished for the Inquisition. And yet, she gave Cassandra her word, that she would be safe. What good is she, if she fails yet another Divine? She clenches her fists as she looks over the maps spread out over the table. Antiva, Rivain, Nevarra, Ferelden, Starkhaven, Par Vollen, Seheron, Tevinter. There are enemies everywhere. As the chaos in Thedas gradually subsides, the united front that was created during the Inquisition withers away. Now people will return to the infighting, their eternal quest for dominance. Nations play a version of the Game at all times, they just do not know.

She must extend her spy network even further. A difficulty, given how many agents she lost during the Inquisition. It was necessary, their lives expendable for the greater cause. Still, she is aware that there is a deficiency. She has asked Varric for names. He is not the spymaster she is, but he casts a net in areas she cannot reach. He has grudgingly agreed to help. Despite his protests, she believes that he cares for Cassandra, for her vision. Maybe at heart, he is a romantic. His affection can be used.

The candle flickers and Leliana looks to it, melted to a puddle in a dish before blowing out entirely. She stares at it, the wispy smoke visible by the moonlight and finds another. The matches are in hand when the door to the war room opens. She worries it's Hawke but finds Cassandra instead. "Most Holy," she gives a faint bow of her head. "You have a full morning. You should be in bed."

"I'll go to bed when you do." Cassandra says. Leliana smiles at the words but it is impossible to tease her. Inappropriate to do so, despite the years they have known each other, despite their friendship. Everything changed when Cassandra became the Divine. Everything had to. Sacrifices must be made. She considers if Hawke feels similarly. Weeks ago Hawke burst from Cassandra's office after fighting with the door. Cassandra had seemed… flustered. It is something Leliana has given more thought than she has any right. "I see you're still at it."

"The work of the Left Hand is never done," Leliana lights the match, the glow caressing Cassandra's face. Leliana steals a moment to appreciate the image, engrain it into her mind before touching the flame to the candle wick. "I cannot afford to rest. Not until I know everything is as it should be."

"I should not have allowed this," Cassandra says sharply. Leliana isn't sure what she references—it doesn't take long to realize that the anger is not directed at her. Cassandra directs it to herself. "We all know how you suffered as the Left Hand of Justinia. She knew it too, you know. She would make mention of it, during our long carriage rides. The things that were made to be done. The necessary things that only you could handle. She regretted it. I do not know if she ever told you."

Leliana waves the match out. She never spoke to Cassandra about what she found in the chantry at Valence. She knows what Justinia wanted for her, wished for her, but it doesn't matter. It's too late. She no longer knows how to be anyone else. "You're concerned?" she asks. "As much as I hate to say it—Hawke had a point." The only one, Leliana imagines, she'll ever concede to the blasted apostate, "I failed you." She squares her shoulders. "I failed Justinia. Justinia is gone." It is easier to say the words now, despite how her stomach clenches. "But you are not. I will not fail you again."

Cassandra paces. "Then you will not reconsider?"

"I will not."

"It's never easy. Just as Hawke said." Cassandra frowns at the same moment Leliana does. "Do you know, she came to me and tried to resign her post as the Right Hand?" Leliana's frown deepens. "I talked her into staying."

"But you would have me gone?"

"It is different, Leliana. I do not want this life for you. Part of me was naïve. I did not believe people would come after me so quickly. I cannot know how they knew when to strike. There is no other I can think of for the Left Hand. The fact remains that I would prefer another. I do not want your hands bloodied because of me."

But she has had so much blood on her hands already, the spot will never come out, the smell of iron never will, her blades are stained red. "How like you. You're always thinking of everyone else before yourself," Leliana smiles, despite her frustration. That kind of person is the most difficult to protect. "You may have enemies, Most Holy, but you have allies as well. We will not spill blood during your reign, like we did with Justinia." They will, in fact, spill more. Justinia was a progressive Divine but Cassandra is more so. The people oppose change. When brought about, it must be done forcefully, brutally, to squelch further attacks, to end any thought of rising up. Cassandra would prefer to be diplomatic, to lead by example, but often all that gets a person is killed. "There is also Hawke." Yes, the Right Hand with Solona's face and voice. It is difficult to look at her. "She may be…" an idiot. "A jester but… she seems committed to you. She will do as you ask."

"That is… surprising to hear. Have you been getting along?"

The two interact as little as possible, it seems. Enough to talk business, enough to keep Cassandra safe and little more. "We will do what is necessary. I hope that will suffice." Cassandra seems unsure. "We are in your service." She laughs softly. "You cannot expect all hands of the Divine to get along as we did. Hawke is not you. Hawke is not so competent." She waves it away before Cassandra begins to prickle again. "But if it pleases you, I will make… an effort, to smooth things between us."

"I would appreciate that," she says with a small nod. "I believe… that she is struggling with what became of her in the Fade." She shakes her head. Lavellan saw Justinia in the Fade. She wonders if Hawke did as well. If Justinia was the one to guide her out. _Don't be foolish. That is fanciful thinking and nothing more. Who knows what manner of creature guided Hawke out? _Justinia once told her that compassion was her greatest strength, that trust took a great deal more strength than doubt, but compassion and trust make people soft and ends with the death of innocent lives. "I should say no more. She would not like me to speak of it."

"I thought there were to be no secrets between us, Most Holy."

Cassandra shifts her stance. "Yes. You are right." She sighs. "And I admit, you have a point. I cannot expect that you and Hawke will work together like you and I did. But I have hope that both of you can make it work." She touches a hand to her shoulder. "I may have a busy morning tomorrow but you have preparations for the ball at the university. I know how taxing it is. You must rest, Leliana. I command it."

Leliana touches her fingers to Cassandra's hand. The woman is always unnaturally warm. Leliana steps away from her, pressing her hands onto the table to stop any other contact. It's difficult to deny her anything. "Very well. I'll turn in tonight, for you." She blows out the candle.

* * *

><p>The Chant of Light has always been a source of tranquility for her. It once gave her comfort and strength but no more. That said, she can appreciate how beautiful it is, how it fills the Grand Cathedral and spills out onto the streets of Val Royeux. It is something that any nation would be proud of and it is no wonder that travelers come from all of Thedas to hear it.<p>

Leliana walks the halls of the Grand Cathedral, remembering the days when she joined in reciting the Chant, rejoiced in it. She was so young. Soon she arrives at her intended destination. Were it up to her, she'd charge into the room but who knows what manner Hawke would twist it when speaking of it to Cassandra. She knocks and is bid entry.

Leliana turns the door and enters the room. It is not a humble room; in fact, it might be larger than Cassandra's. The floor is glossy marble, the canopied bed with lush, red drapes, is big enough to fit five or six individuals. Large, arched windows of Andrastian glass line the furthest wall in a curve, spilling warm, colorful sunlight in the room. Hawke sits with her back to Leliana, feet propped up on the desk, stacked with tomes. When she doesn't turn, Leliana moves around the desk to face her. Hawke smiles up at her and Leliana resents how her heart skips a beat. Curse her face. "Sister Nightingale. What can I do for you?"

Leliana spots the invitation to the ball at the University of Orlais, on the desk, wax seal intact. She picks it up. "You have not opened this?"

Hawke sits up, sets her tome aside and takes the envelope from Leliana. "The wax appears intact," she returns envelope to Leliana, "so that would be a fair assumption."

"You idiot," the words are out before she can stop them, but if her aim was to hurt Hawke, she fails. Hawke's eyes only light further, her smile brighter than before. "There is a soiree at the university tonight. You are expected to attend, as I am, as is Most Holy." A terrible thought occurs to her. "What will you wear?"

Hawke shrugs, points at the clothing she wears, the worn Champion of Kirkwall outfit. "This old thing?"

"No. No. Absolutely not," she rips the envelope open, confirms that the invitation is indeed there. "I thought, mistakenly it would appear, that you were beginning to take your position as the Right Hand seriously."

This time Hawke laughs, brow furrowed in puzzlement. "I am."

"You're not!"

"Because I didn't know there was a stupid party tonight?"

Leliana tries to calm herself. "How many times must I tell you, that this life, these parties, are the very lifeblood of the people of Orlais? That it will influence Divine Victoria's reign? That it will shape it, that _we _will shape it by our actions." She hands the invitation to Hawke, who looks at it only a moment before setting it down on the desk. "Do you understand anything?" Hawke only crosses her arms, looking not so amused as she did moments before. "All right. It appears that it falls to me to handle this. It's my own fault, for thinking I could trust you with such a minor thing. I will send a tailor here and I'll have something _suitable _made for you," she goes around the desk to exit, furious, "I'll trust you can pick out your own mask? Can you do that?"

"I don't know. It appears I know nothing."

"Maker, you will be the death of us all."

"That's blasphemy, Sister Nightingale!"

Leliana slams the door.

* * *

><p>The soiree doesn't start until nine in the evening but Leliana's preparations begin far ahead of time. This is a task that requires a great deal of coordination and unfortunately she must work with Hawke to double and triple check that there is not a single detail they have missed. The Templars and the Seekers will be out in force to ensure Divine Victoria is protected.<p>

_So I'll be with her at the Chantry? _Hawke asks.

_No. Unfortunately, you'll be with me. We'll be doing what is required of us for Most Holy._

Hawke was unhappy. _I'm not leaving Cassandra with a bunch of Templars and Seekers I don't know. Varric goes with her. This is not up for negotiation._

The woman can be as frighteningly stubborn as Cassandra. In the end, Leliana agrees and once they are sure every detail has been finalized, all their agents are where they must be, the two separate to prepare for the ball.

Leliana dresses in a long, thin strapped black gown, dress gloves and a mask that covers her eyes, crow feathers brush at the tips along her brow like knives. Before departing, she stops to see Cassandra in her study. The Seekers, Templars with her, exit silently upon her entering. Cassandra looks miserable in the white gown, though truthfully, Leliana thinks it suits her. Cassandra gets to her feet. "You look…" she appraises her. "As much as I dislike this thing," she says, "I prefer it to playing dress up. I don't know that I could if I tried," Leliana smiles and comes closer. "We have kept you hidden too long. I know how you enjoy nights like this, despite the preparation."

"It is my job to stay hidden." She studies her. "You look nervous."

"Yes. I suppose I have become accustomed to having you and Hawke at my side. It is a strange thing to no longer be able to rely on myself. I would prefer I be allowed a sword and shield."

"The Warrior Divine," Leliana laughs softly, "I do not know if the world is ready for such a capable woman." She presses her palms to the desk and looks at her. "Do not worry. You are safe tonight."

"I have the Templars and the Seekers," she agrees, "and apparently Varric," she tsks. "Perhaps his presence will help. I will be too irritated to be nervous." Leliana smiles. "Empress Celene has not stated any official support to me or the Chantry. She is progressive. She is secularist."

"Were it not for the Inquisition, she would not live. She knows better than to stand against us. If she needs a reminder of who she is indebted to, she will get it." There are other candidates for the throne, others who might be grateful, who might rally around the Chantry. A beat. "Have you thought of how you will address the people tonight?"

"I will be honest. With love and an open heart we will lead the way forward. We must stand united." She stares at Leliana. "You once believed the same but I no longer see anything in your eyes, Leliana." She reaches out and plucks the mask from Leliana's face. Leliana can't meet her gaze. "I know it will be hard work. But I will make it so you believe again."

Leliana swallows. The door comes open, Varric striding in. He pulls at his dress jacket, his chest hair mercifully covered for once. "All right. Let's get this shit show on the road."

* * *

><p>The University of Orlais ballroom is massive, rivaling even the one in the Winter Palace. Gold seems to gleam from every surface. It is Val Royeux, so of course the most coin would be poured into what has long been their legacy. Not education but The Game. Royans fill the ballroom, lords and ladies called out for hours on end, all of them wearing outfits more extravagant than the last.<p>

It is a marvel. It is exhilarating. She gave up the Game while she was in the chantry in Lothering and since then, she has played it from the shadows. How she has missed being in it with all the others! She walks the staircases and corridors, taking everyone in, identifying where her agents are, identifying the individuals who she will pay close attention to this evening.

It is her duty to identify the targets. It will be Hawke's to use her charms, her fists, her dagger, if need be, to make them see reason. Most respond to threats of scandal, to having their dirty secrets revealed, but others are more difficult, they've never faced hardship so they think they are brave. Those are the ones who will only come around when violence is employed.

She does not know where Hawke is. They were meant to ride in together but Hawke mentioned her mask wasn't ready yet, that she would catch up with her later. The woman is insufferable. She hopes that she is here, on her way, that she hasn't been distracted by something shiny and forgotten what she was meant to do with her evening.

The elven servers scurry past, bringing out food, delivering drinks, pressing secrets to her hands, secrets to her ears, they nod and smile at varying guests. Leliana's targets increase by the moment. In time she will send out agents to investigate further, to retrieve those secrets and then use them to get leverage. In the end, Sera's Red Jenny's were useful, it gave Leliana another tactic, another layer for her spy network.

Someone falls in step beside her by the bannister, far too close. _Go away. You are not wanted. _Of course, one cannot speak so bluntly at these events. She looks but doesn't recognize the figure, dressed in fine, black vestments, the seal of the chantry emblazed in gold along the back. The black, buttoned boots are impeccable, soft leather, perhaps halla. A blank gauntlet, sharp, as dragon talons is situated on the right hand. The mask is ebony, glistening, covering the forehead and eyes, the sunburst seal of the Chantry is engraved at the center in gold. Black hair is combed neatly. Leliana sees dark, cobalt eyes, red, glistening lips, pulled into a brazen smile.

"You clean up nicely, Lay Sister."

Leliana scowls. Hawke insists still on referencing that time, over a decade ago, when they scarcely knew one another. Why couldn't it have been Bethany that lived? The girl was very sweet. Carver was always angry and serious. Hawke herself was somewhat reserved but friendly. She always had a smile on her face. Was she happy, then? Or was it all an illusion? When Leliana first met Solona at the tavern, she mistakenly thought it was Hawke she was coming face to face with. That she had been the one to become the Warden. "You're late."

"Just because you haven't seen me, doesn't mean I'm late."

"And just because you say so, doesn't mean it's true."

Hawke whistles. "Do you trust anyone?" Leliana ignores her, watching the nobles on the dance floor, watching her agents move through the crowds. Empress Celene is seated at the head of the stairs in an elaborate, golden chair. Leliana narrows her eyes. Hawke takes her arm, the soft, black leather glove on her left hand cool against Leliana's skin. "You're different than before."

"Let go of me." Leliana smiles as she says the words. Hawke releases her. "Different, you say. You don't know anything."

"I remember you from Lothering. You _were _different. You… Bethany loves your stories. I heard some of them. I used to sneak into the Chantry to listen. Away from the Templars," she smiles, "We risked it, to listen to you. You told them… with… love and hope…conviction. You believed," her voice quiets, "in all of this."

"And you risked the Templars wrath to come hear my stories? That wasn't very bright of you."

"So you were right and I'm an idiot." She smiles. "You were the prettiest girl in town. That you were a lay sister only made you the tastiest of forbidden fruit."

That wording. "You had a crush," her tone is malicious, "so you think you knew me?" Leliana touches a hand to Hawke's chest, still smiling for all of those who are likely watching. "You never knew me, Hawke. That woman you met in Lothering was deluded. Better at pretending for others. Incapable of seeing the truth. I'm free of all of that now. I know who I am. For better or for worse." She reaches down and takes Hawke's gloved hand. "Now, you're going to come with me to the dance floor. You will lead. There's a woman here, an accomplice of Sister Natalie's, an accomplice of Grand Cleric Victoire. She is the last rat left. Come," she pulls her, "I want you to see her face."

Leliana pulls Hawke after her down the stairs. If she's looking forward, if she doesn't look back, it's easy. It feels normal. It feels good. Of course, none of that can last. Her heels hit the ballroom floor. They bow to one another before Hawke settles a hand at the small of her back, taking Leliana's hand in that steel, black gauntlet and pulling her close. "Nice job on the clothes, by the way," Hawke tells her chipperly, "my father wore something similar. Of course, this cost more coin than he ever accrued in his life."

Her eyes are penetrating. Leliana forces herself not to look away. "Stay focused. You will dance with me. You will dance with others before making your way back to the rat. Eventually, you will invite Sister Clarice to a more private setting. You will do this while Empress Celene is giving her speech and everyone is occupied hanging on her every word. She will want to go with you."

"A Sister? Why?"

Leliana chuckles darkly. "Do not be naïve, Hawke. These sisters get so lonely, they'll spread their legs for anyone. You can be charming. Use it." Despite the mask, Leliana reads the uncertainty in her eyes. "Victoire has sent agents after me before. She has used the chaos to advance her own regime. She can only be the Divine, if the current one is dead. I thought after the situation with her nephew, she would not be so bold to try again. She must think she is safe. We will show her how wrong she is. Now dip me." Hawke does so, in surprisingly graceful fashion. Her neat hair momentarily spills over her eyes. Leliana eases it into place before slipping a knife into the inside of Hawke's vestments. Hawke rights her again. Leliana presses close to her, murmurs in her ear. It is not the hard armor of the Warden. It is soft and welcoming. Leliana wishes she'd let her keep the sharp angles of the Champion's armor. "It belongs to one of Celene's men. As soon as the news of her death spreads, they will launch an investigation. To think, that one of the Chantry's own could be attacked, while our Divine visits in this very building."

"That's…"

"Celene has forgotten how to show gratitude. Let's remind her. Now go." The music comes to a stop. They bow to one another once more. Hawke takes her hand, kisses it, before disappearing into the crowd.

Leliana watches, excited and nervous.

* * *

><p>Sister Clarice's throat is ripped open, the blade buried in her heart. Leliana approves. It's messy, it will draw attention. Better yet, she'll bleed out quickly and on the oft chance she should survive, she won't be able to say a word. A murder isn't enough to stop a party in Val Royeux, but the guards are on alert, the nobles chatter excitedly, the party has gotten its second wind.<p>

Despite Sister Clarice's body, there is no sight of Hawke. Leliana moves through the hallways until she spots one room, the doors tall enough to arch twenty some feet into the air. The library. Leliana slips inside. She closes the door. Hawke is present, just as she'd hoped. "Well done," Leliana says. The library sits on the third floor. Windows extend from the ceiling to the floor, flooding the room in pale moonlight. Hawke turns to her, hands resting on the desk. "I worried you might hesitate."

Hawke pulls out several sheets of paper. "I found these on her person. It appears you aren't completely mad after all." She hands the letters to Leliana, who reads through them. Victoire wasn't behind the assassination attempt but the letters list those nobles who support her, those who think the Chantry is in need of new leadership. They would have banded together soon enough to try something similar. "We can't tell Cassandra about this. She wouldn't approve."

Leliana smiles. "Of course not. That's why we're here. To do what she can't. To do what is necessary. You should have seen her just now. She gave an impassioned speech on the necessity of love and peace, on the injustice of this poor murdered soul. She was so earnest. Real. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. The nobles ate it up. And Celene looked very nervous. The blade won't be enough to end her reign, of course, but it will create enough doubt to apply the pressure we need for her to come around and see things our way."

"You're diabolical."

"I am the Left Hand. And you, complain as you might, sound impressed." Leliana folds the papers and smiles. Hawke returns it. The moonlight catches her eyes. They are the same eyes of that woman who loved her, years ago. The one who loved her so selflessly. The only one who ever loved her without wanting anything in return. The one the Maker took. Leliana reaches out, touches the sunburst seal on Hawke's mask, the sharp ridges beneath her fingertips. "I do not like this mask," she says. She and Solona spoke of Tranquility. It was something Leliana never agreed with, something Solona feared. Did Hawke fear it as well? Leliana did not see Hawke when she came back that way. She couldn't.

"I suppose you shouldn't have trusted me to pick it out, after all." Their voices… the moonlight. Leliana and Solona spent many nights in camp, beneath the moon and the stars, talking. Leliana told her stories. Solona always loved hearing them. They fell in love that way. When she died, so did Leliana's love for stories. Now she sends others to the library, when they come clamoring to her for tales. "Should I take the mask off?" Hawke offers.

"Yes. No." Leliana frowns. Hawke reaches for Leliana's mask but Leliana stops her, grabbing her wrist tightly. Hawke smiles in return. That grip might hurt to anyone else, but to people like them, pain is different. Most people do not know what it is to have their lover make an attempt on their life. Or be sickened with the Blight and tortured for a year. Most do not know what it is to bleed for your beliefs and be paid with loss. Maybe something about those experiences breaks a person from having ordinary responses. "These masks keep us honest."

"Do they?" A moment passes. "You look so beautiful tonight." People used to tell her the same. Not anymore. They know who she is. There are stories. They fear her. "This is your world, Leliana. You're alive in it. Thrive in it. I'm glad I got to see you smile. I thought you'd forgotten how."

"Oh?" Leliana laughs caustically. "What is a smile worth? Look at you, always the fool, never without a joke, but Most Holy tells me you are broken." She doesn't know why she says the words. She believes them, true, but there is another motivation. The words are better, deadlier, than any knife between the ribs. Why does Cassandra keep secrets for her?

There's a flicker in Hawke's eyes before her smile falls away. "…It appears these masks keep us honest after all." She turns her face slightly away, looking past her. "And here I thought we were starting to get along."

"That is your problem, Hawke. You can't stand the idea of anyone not liking you."

"Am I so popular?" The smile is back on her lips. Leliana thinks its habit. "I had no idea. Tell that to all the assassins who've come after me. And tell it to yourself, if you must. Call me broken. Tell yourself the woman I knew was deluded, if you think that makes you strong. You _care. _You wouldn't be so bloody fanatical if you didn't. I still see what you were, even if you've forgotten, no matter how buried deep. You haven't changed. You can't have changed. No one can change completely. No matter what parts of themselves are lost."

"And Most Holy asks why I cannot get along with you. I do not suffer fools, Hawke and it is clear to me, day by day, word by word, that you are one of the biggest I've ever seen."

"You may not like me, Leliana, but I see how you look at me." She smirks. "I must have one of those faces."

Leliana stares back at her evenly. Hawke mocks her. There is nothing she will not mock. Deplorable woman. "You have seen no such thing." Her face is a greater mask than any that could be crafted or purchased. "You are making assumptions."

"Am I wrong?" she touches a finger along the brow of Leliana's mask. "These masks keep us honest, don't they? Try it, for a change. Or do you not even believe in this Great Game anymore?"

Leliana closes the distance between them and kisses her. Hawke is surprised, almost loses her balance. Her lips are firm and resistant against her own. For an instant Leliana thinks she will be humiliated, that this is yet another mistake, but Hawke steadies herself, kisses her back just as fiercely. Hawke tries to reach for the mask but Leliana grabs her hands again, brings them to herself instead.

Hawke switches their positions, lifts Leliana so she's on the desk. It has been over ten years since Leliana kissed another. She'd forgotten how much she craved contact. Their kiss is feverish and desperate. Leliana's hands slip beneath Hawke's vestments, tracing the curves of her body. She sighs as Hawke carefully pushes the straps of her dress down and her lips find naked, hot flesh. It's disorienting. Oh, Maker. She looks so much like her.

There isn't a moment where Hawke's lips leave her, they are always on her flesh, on her lips, her neck, her breasts. Her hand settles on her stomach, where that ugly scar is and for an instant they stop. Solona looked at her much the same way that Hawke looks at her now. Leliana hates Marjolaine for always interfering in these moments. Leliana takes Hawke's left hand, pulls the leather glove off. "You know what I want," Leliana breathes, "We've done this before."

"We have…?" Hawke sounds lightheaded.

They both understand at the same time. Leliana shifts to move, to get off the desk, but Hawke catches her, kisses her, softer this time but with enough heat to make Leliana stay. Hawke's bare fingers, the talons of that steel glove, hot and cold, slip beneath her small clothes, she slides them away, drops them on the floor, kisses along her neck, pushing her knees apart, the sharp claws of the gauntlet sliding along Leliana's thigh, sweet and stinging, as Hawke maneuvers her leg, securing it around her waist.

Leliana is open. Hawke's fingers, soft and warm slide into her. Their eyes meet, both of them, flushed and breathless.


	6. Chapter 6

The carriage jostles. Cassandra rests an elbow against the window. Hawke sits opposite of her. Cassandra thinks of the carriage ride back from the Free Marches. The moonlight is pale. Cassandra does not know where Leliana has gone. It was not until she was at the carriage, the templars at her side that Hawke quickly took the steps down from the University, shooting a look to the templars, a dismissal, holding the door open and stepping inside, shutting the door firmly.

She has said nothing for the entirety of the ride. She wears a mask, the brand of the chantry carved on the forehead. Cassandra's attention flits from that to the red of her lipstick, drawn down to the side, smeared, like a bloodtrail. "Will you take that mask off?" Hawke stares before pulling it away and setting it to the side. Her face is different tonight. "I did not see you all evening."

"It was me all along, beneath the mask." Hawke notices Cassandra's irritation. "I trust Varric took care of you."

"He did," and she knows she makes a face. "Have you any knowledge of Sister Clarice's murder?" Hawke stares back evenly at her. "There is suspicion that it was Celene's doing but for the life of me I do not know why." She scoffs. "I hate Orlais and their insistence on this game. They cannot take even one night off of it."

"Your speech was lovely, Your Perfection," she gives a gentle nod of her head.

Cassandra looks at her. She scanned the audience but she did not see Hawke in the crowd. Then again, it was a full ballroom with masked individuals. "I did not see you." A beat. "Why did you choose that mask?"

"They were out of peacock feathers."

"Yes, make jokes." She removes the hat of the Divine and sets it to the side. It is impossible to get a straight answer out of her. "You truly liked the speech?"

Another small nod. "Was Celene agreeable this evening? There's been talk of her forgetting her place."

"I do not like to put it in such words," Cassandra thinks of the empress that met her earlier in the evening, greeting her as if she were nothing more than an attendant, even if the bitch would not have her life were it not for her and the Inquisitor. After the murder of the Sister, she was more agreeable, eager, it would seem, to get in her good graces. "She has made promises to be more charitable towards the Chantry."

"Coin?"

"No, her support." Cassandra's eyes narrow. "As we both know, that will get us further than any sovereigns she may throw at us. Your lipstick is smeared." The last is not intended to be said aloud but she has been distracted by it. The colors, she notes, are not the same shade. There is red, bright as blood, another pale pink. Hawke wipes at the corner of her mouth but doesn't comment. Cassandra's fingers curl in her lap. "I expected Leliana to return with me. Do you know where she is?"

"You know Leliana. She comes. She goes. She'll turn up, Your Perfection, of that I have no doubt." Her gaze turns back out the window.

"I would prefer you not call me that when it's the two of us."

"And what should I call you, Your Perfection?"Cassandra scowls. Hawke is an ingrate. She cannot explain to her how alienating the title is, how lonely, even if Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall would understand more than others. "Forgive me," she adds. "I'm not myself."

Cassandra tries to bottle her concern. "Are you ill?"

Her ebony claw glove glistens in the light as she moves her fingers, dismissing the question. "No." she touches the mask at her side. "These are handy, aren't they? But what are you supposed to do when you take them off? What if they never come off?"

"You're speaking in riddles."

Hawke doesn't respond and Cassandra isn't sure she heard her.

* * *

><p>Another day in court.<p>

Cassandra gives audience to the nobles of Thedas, to the Seekers, to the clergy who question her inclusion of mages within the Chantry. Hawke stands to her right, serious, quiet. Cassandra had not thought her capable of keeping her mouth shut, of keeping the jokes to herself. She does not know whether something is the matter with her or if she is only playing a role to the Divine.

"Everyone wants power," Cassandra complains when they've all gone. "They do not seek what they can do for the Maker, how we can do the Maker's work. They want status. They want recognition. Meanwhile, we have the largest alienage in Thedas in Orlais. Elves are starving and they are not alone." She tsks.

"But _we're_ not starving."

Cassandra shoots her a look. "The Inquisition quelled some of this chaos but there is discord everywhere and I am unable to stop it. What is the purpose of the Chantry? What is the purpose of my Divineship if I cannot affect change?" She looks to Hawke. "Have you no opinion?"

"You could be the Maker and the people would remain unsatisfied." She notes the look on Cassandra's face. "You asked." A half grin. "I prefer you to the Maker, if it's any consolation."

Cassandra goes hot with anger. Hawke is blasphemous and unapologetic. She seems to revel in saying such things. "I do not want your preference." Hawke shrugs as if Cassandra's preferences were inconsequential. "I want your counsel."

"Speak to Lady Nightingale if you want to maneuver the political landscape. It's not my specialty, or have you already forgotten Kirkwall?" She adjusts her gauntlet and takes the steps down to the wine red carpet. The color suits her. There are marks on her arm. Cassandra narrows her eyes on them when the door to the room opens.

Leliana strolls in and beside her—Cassandra blinks. Vivienne. Hawke and Leliana exchange glances before Vivienne and Hawke appraise one another coolly. Vivienne blows right past her and bows lowly before Cassandra. "It has been far too long, darling," she kisses the ring on Cassandra's finger before pressing a kiss to each of her cheeks. "I know we've written for our plans with the Circles but some of these conversations are better had in person, my dear. It would not be wise to leave a paper trail."

"I thought Vivienne might provide wise counsel over mage matters," Leliana nods, "I wrote to her several weeks ago."

Several weeks ago. Hawke has been the Right Hand for months. Hawke crosses her arms gently. "How very thoughtful of you."

"The Champion of Kirkwall as the Right Hand is certainly _shrewd_," Vivienne turns, her gown moving with a flourish, "but what can apostates teach you about regulation and control of a mage tower? How can she show you how to guide them? You don't create circles or unity, Champion. The only time you've entered a Circle has been to tear it down. What message are you sending?"

"I'm sure you're eager to tell me."

Cassandra looks between the two of them and to Leliana who watches the scene unfold with such unreadable inscrutability, that Cassandra is sure she must be enjoying herself. Why is it that she finds herself constantly playing mediator between the parties that work for her? Why can't they all just bloody get along? "I know how busy you are, Vivienne. Thank you for taking the time to come see me. I am certain your input will be invaluable."

"Wonderful," Leliana says, "I have cleared off your schedule, Most Holy. This is a delicate matter and it will be a staple in your Divineship. We must take care that it is done with caution, with all loose ends tied." She looks to Hawke. "I meant no disrespect, Champion. I'm sure you understand the need to summon a proper mage, especially one so respected and less… controversial."

Hawke smiles brightly and looks to Cassandra. "It would appear that you have more than enough people to attend to you, Your Perfection. By your leave?" Cassandra grudgingly nods. Hawke slams the gauntlet into her chest, a salute and a bow and then she's gone.

Cassandra looks to Leliana, whose eyes are far away before she smiles in that soft, almost defeated way of hers. "Let us get to work, then. There is much to be done."

* * *

><p>"That was ill done," Cassandra tells Leliana. It is another late night. Leliana has once again let candles melt down to waxy stumps. She hovers over the war room table map, looking over it as if it were her personal empire.<p>

Leliana glances at her, notes that she is not in her Divine regalia and only smiles in response. "You are very protective of her but the Right Hand is grown and she has endured much. She and her ego will survive." She picks up a Chantry seal before setting it back down. "Vivienne will prove useful. She is renowned and moves through every circle of Orlais—no pun intended. Let us flatter her. Her charms—when she bothers exhibiting them—are powerful. She wants a voice. Let her work for it and then, we can lend her our ear."

"I know you suggested her for the Right Hand but Vivienne lacks subtlety."

"You prefer Hawke's sledgehammer approach?"

"Hawke has her own charms."

"You think so?" Leliana stares at the table and to Cassandra. "You are too forgiving." Cassandra doesn't know what she's talking about. Anyway, no one has ever said such a thing about her. Hotheaded and stubborn, yes. Nothing more. "Varric had told me of how you questioned him for days." Cassandra makes a sound of discontent. Perfect. She wonders what lie Varric has invented this time. "As time passed, you grew more impressed with Hawke's accomplishments. Perhaps you developed a case of hero worship, or a crush. She's attractive and somewhat accomplished. I wouldn't blame you."

Cassandra scowls. "Don't be absurd. We were both there for the same reason. We wanted someone to be able to put an end to this madness, nothing more." It's true that when she first began questioning Varric, she imagined Hawke as a criminal of the highest regard. She tore Kirkwall apart and incited rebellion, and yet, as the story unraveled, she learned that Hawke had not set out to destroy the Circles and start a qunari rebellion. She was merely a woman accosted by circumstance and determined to make the best of it. The duel for the pirate woman, however, was very romantic. She wonders if any man would do the same for her. "I tire of this pettiness between you. I thought you said you'd make it a point to get along. Does she just rub you the wrong way?"

"I wouldn't say that." She takes a breath. "Did you ever meet The Hero of Ferelden?" Cassandra shakes her head. "You know they are cousins, yes?"

"It would seem the Amell/ Hawke bloodline is bound for greatness."

"I'm not so sure. Solona is dead, as you know. Hawke's bloodline is gone; she nearly died in the Fade. I am still not sure how she returned." Her eyes are foggy. "In either case—the cousins look very much alike. Solona was important to me. Hawke's presence…" Her face is serious and unhappy before she smiles again. "I will do better, Most Holy."

"I am sorry. I had not considered such a thing. I do not mean to accuse—but you could have told me."

"No. It's a personal matter." Leliana reaches out and takes her hand as if sensing her uneasiness. "You are very dear to me, Cassandra. I would not wish to encumber you with something that happened so long ago. In a way, my response is a surprise to me as well. But I no longer wish to talk about it."

"Of course. I apologize."

"There is nothing to apologize for."

Perhaps Leliana is right but it does not absolve the guilt Cassandra feels. It must be a burden to be near one that so closely resembles a former lover. Cassandra has only had one but even so, she can imagine the difficulty. It is better to move on. "Empress Celene has sent word that they have found the culprit behind Sister Clarice's assassination."

"Mh. And what does she intend to do?"

"The man is to be executed."

"You cannot go."

"I know." There's a beat. "I am not sure we should allow this. The Chantry's message should be one of love and forgiveness. This assassin should stand trial and if found guilty, be sentenced to imprisonment. Death cannot be met with death."

"You're joking." Leliana's smile is cutting. "The man is guilty. The dagger is proof enough."

"Is it not the same sort of trick that was played on Gaspard? It is easy enough to frame another for murder."

"And what proof have you that he has been framed?" She shakes her head. "No. Intervening is not possible. It will weaken the Chantry's position. They will think we are soft. They will attack. We cannot afford that. Not when your Divineship is in its infancy. We will send Hawke. She will witness this execution and make sure it is done. She is the Right Hand."

"She is the Right Hand only when it suits you, it would seem. You are making so many decisions, Leliana. I have forgotten which one of us was elected Divine—"

"I did not mean—"

"Yes, you did. You have. You have meant everything. You must think me so incapable." Is she incapable? Is she soft? Is she not wise? Maker, give her strength. Perhaps she is not the right leader for the Chantry. Perhaps she lacks the ruthlessness to do what is necessary. Or maybe it is Leliana who is wrong. She is radical and fierce, dangerous. She will ensure that her rule is respected but at what cost? Cassandra steps away from her. "I do not wish to continue this conversation. I will leave you to your work." She is too angry now to think clearly and does not want to say something she regrets.

* * *

><p>Cassandra enters Hawke's room and is filled with disgust. The room is lovely, of course and well maintained but everything about it screams unnecessary extravagance. This is many times the size of small homes poverty stricken families squeeze into out of necessity. She knows that Hawke did not choose it and still, she cannot erase her unhappiness.<p>

Hawke sits in relative darkness, the only glow in the room that of the fireplace, warm and surprisingly bright. Hawke reads by candlelight and upon noticing her gets to her feet and slams the tome shut. "Cassandra." Cassandra is happy for the name but it appears to have been a mistake. Hawke winces upon saying it. "I mean…" she clears her throat. "Have I missed some crucially important meeting? Or am I being kept out of those altogether now?" she grins.

She always smiles so brightly, so warmly, it even touches her eyes. Cassandra wonders how often apostates must pretend. Their entire lives must be pretend. How exhausting. "I am sorry for what happened earlier."

Hawke shrugs. "I suggested you find new counsel and Leliana had already seen to it. Although I'm beginning to think I was just brought on for my pretty face and not my cleverness." Hawke pulls out a chair for Cassandra who sits apprehensively. Nobody pulls out chairs for her. What is the point anyway? "Wine?"

Hawke is partway through a bottle and Cassandra notes the goblet before her that is half filled, the wine dark as blood in the darkness. "Why not? It has been a long day." Hawke retreats to the liquor cabinet and withdraws a fresh goblet, the sunburst seal etched into the crystal. She fills it halfway before sitting beside her. Cassandra adjusts to better look at her. "You seem to always be reading. I did not think you such a voracious reader."

"I'm more than just my looks." Another smile is leveled at Cassandra, gleeful at her consternation. "Father always insisted I be well read. He taught me. As did Mother—she'd had a noble's education before she ran away with my pesky apostate father. And then we ruined the blood line, as mages tend to do. I enjoyed learning but I never went to university for obvious reasons. I made the world my classroom. The books at home. When you're a young apostate, terrified of templars, it's scary going out. I don't care what Vivienne says. Templars have rarely made apostates feel safe. Those children who are turned over the instant their magic is discovered, perhaps—but the rest of us." She shakes her head. "You've heard the stories of Ser Alrik at the Kirkwall Circle. He was a beast. He must have abused countless charges and what came of it?"

"A violent death at your hands."

"There was that. Varric really has stolen all my thunder." Hawke smiles. "But the mages complained. Nothing was done. Not by the Knight-Commander, not by Knight-Captain Cullen, not by your bloody Seekers."

Cassandra has a drink of wine. She cannot argue the claim. "We failed Kirkwall. I take responsibility. Many died because we were unable to see."

Hawke taps her finger on the table. "It's not as if you're the ones who bloody did it though, is it?" She runs her fingers through her hair. "Mages will never feel welcome in the Chantry until the Chantry and the Circles accept apostates openly."

"Loose apostates are a danger. They risk becoming maleficarum."

The candle beside her flickers. "Naughty naughty maleficarum."

"I tire of your glib nature, Hawke. Not everything is worthy of mockery."

"Blood mages become blood mages because they're afraid."

"You are a fool. Blood mages are not afraid. Blood mages want power, damn the consequences."

"Can't it be both?"

Cassandra's nostrils flare. "You of all people should know the dangers of blood magic."

"I, of all people?" She laughs softly. "Knight-Commander Meredith one said the same."

"You compare us?"

"If the zealotry fits." A beat. "I'm sorry. I know what you've lost. And believe me- I haven't forgotten what Quentin took from me. It was more than just my mother."

Was it? Cassandra only thought it was the mother that the crazed blood mage killed. "I did not know there was more." Was it more of Varric's creative story telling? "Are you all right?" Hawke looks at her, her mirth not diminishing. "The last time we spoke—truly spoke, you were troubled. In Kirkwall. And again, the night of the masquerade at the university." Hawke says nothing. "I enjoy conversations with you." Hawke's smile eases, softer now, more becoming. "I would like to get any business out of the way so we can resume."

"Ah, so it's business after all, not pleasure."

"It is both," Cassandra sputters. Hawke rolls her eyes and Cassandra doesn't know why she protested so ardently. What does she mean to imply? No. She enjoys her conversation, that is all. "Something weighs on my mind. Empress Celene has sent word. They have found this assassin of Sister Clarice's. They intend to execute him."

"Ah, another execution in Orlais. Those always have the best food."

"Do not jest."

"Do you know me?"

Cassandra pounds a fist on the table and their wine goblets rattle. Hawke finishes her glass off, her cheeks rosy, before refilling it. "It is a man's life. This is a serious matter." Hawke leans back into her chair and Cassandra isn't sure if she's relaxing or bracing herself. "This is a symbol of Celene's esteem. However, I cannot attend. They will associate _me_ with the crime and in turn the Chantry. It could be used to disparage us. But Leliana insists we cannot be absent."

"Ah. I see. So Lady Nightingale of the shadows cannot attend. It must be the Right Hand. The face and eyes and _fist_ of the great Divine Victoria." She laughs caustically. "This was her idea?" But Hawke needn't have asked. She looks to know the answer already. "Sweet Sister Nightingale."

"What do you make of her?"

"She's a bitch. Shame what happened to her. She used to be quite sweet when she was in Lothering, you know."

"She has changed a great deal in the time I have known her."

"Does it bother you?"

"Yes." A beat. "I want better for her."

"She's old enough to make her own destructive choices. It's a good thing she's pretty."Cassandra frowns. "Everything she does, she does for your benefit. Her intentions are pure."

"I question what she does without my knowledge."

"You are not meant to know everything the Left Hand does." She smiles. "You would not sleep."

The words are like a knife in her gut. Those very things that she did for Divine Justinia. The last thing Cassandra wants for Leliana is for her to take up that mantle anew. The woman must have some peace. She does not want Leliana's hand bloodied for her benefit. "They are not her burdens alone to bear."

"They are not."

"What do you know, Champion?"

"Me? Nothing."

"Marian."

Hawke blinks, startled. She clears her throat and has a drink of wine. "We never finished our talk of business." She has changed the conversation. "You mentioned that I am to go and watch this man executed as a token of Celene's esteem. In Lothering we used to give out gift baskets. I suppose that's not dramatic enough for Orlais—but I would take an execution to fruit cake."

"You make jokes but I see through it. You do not approve." Curious. "You have killed more than wars waged by smaller nations." Hawke is delighted at the comparison, to Cassandra's chagrin. "I do not wish to ask this of you."

"But you have and you will."

Cassandra draws breath. "Perhaps I am as weak as Leliana seems to think." Hawke shakes her head. "I do not know how this has happened. I question myself more with each passing day. Am I doing what's right? I do not know. If we do not take a strong stand against the actions of this man—will it only result in more death?" She looks to Hawke who stares sympathetically back at her. "I feel so lost."

"I'm sure Andraste felt the same. You needn't worry. The decisions made will not reflect poorly on you."

"And you think that is what I want? For others to take the fall for me?"

"I don't think it's what you want. It's what I want. What Leliana wants." Hawke lifts from the chair, sets her hands on the arms of Cassandra's chair. "None of the corruption of this foul game should ever touch you." She is so close that Cassandra smells the delicate fragrance of wine on her lips, her breath is like a caress on her face. Cassandra stiffens. "But what do you want?" Cassandra exhales. She's tense as Hawke brings a hand to the back of her neck, middle finger pressing gently, enough for Cassandra to lift her face, enough for Hawke's lips to carefully settle over hers.

This is inappropriate. Hawke's mouth is warm, sweet. Cassandra's eyes close. She sighs into the kiss. Her lips flutter. They begin to part. Cassandra pushes her back. Hawke staggers, nearly tripping over her own chair. "I'm sorry," Hawke says quickly, like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Her head is bowed. She says nothing more. Cassandra has no words. Not even 'no'. She leaves.


	7. Chapter 7

"You did _what_?" Varric looks at her incredulously. "And you're still in one piece?" He throws his arms up before folding them over the table, their card game forgotten. "That would have been a risky proposition when she was just a seeker. But no, you're Hawke, you're _crazy_ and apparently you like impossible challenges—seduce the Divine? Sure, why not?"

"I wasn't _trying_ to seduce her." Well, maybe a little.

"Here's a helpful tip: try going after someone with some blood in their veins."

"Cassandra has plenty of it."

"You're defending her?"

"I'm the Right Hand, Varric. What do you expect?" She regrets telling him about it. She doesn't know what she was thinking. She got carried away. It was nice to be able to connect with someone. Cassandra is capable, endearingly awkward and gorgeous. Not that any of those things matter. It was a mistake. She's the Right Hand and Leliana will gut her out of jealousy or some principled stand were she to find out.

"What was I expecting? I don't know. Some restraint?"

"I don't have to explain myself to you." He looks wounded. Things have been tense between them since her return. Varric never turned her over to Cassandra, despite knowing where she was. And still, he did so without reservation, to the Inquisitor. The same one who left her in the Fade. She tells herself she shouldn't be bitter. Yet, she thinks, what information did she offer over Corypheus that he himself could not have? Varric was there in the Fade. He turned away and left. She was happy at the time. She still is. But she no longer has Isabela and she resents him. He watches her as if reading her thoughts.

Hawke stands and goes to the window to look out into Orlais. So many masked nobles. She remembers a time when she would have loved it here. Party after party, game after game, a different man or woman on her arm every night, drinking and fucking the nights away. She had that life before Isabela and then it was the two of them, torrid nights, days, evenings, dawns, on beds, alleyways, caves, anywhere, in between all the killing and adventuring. She touches the knife at the small of her back, with the golden snake hilt. Every time it bites into her skin it's like a love nip from Isabela. Maker, Isabela would think she was a complete tit for this entire business. "I have to watch a man be executed at Halamshiral on the morrow."

"What'd he do? Wear the wrong shoes to the ball?"

"Nothing so drastic. Just a little murder of a Chantry sister."

"And let me guess, you want me to watch over the Seeker."

"You've read my mind, as usual." Normally this is when she'd flirt with him, but she doesn't take joy or comfort in those old things the way she did before. Maybe nothing will ever make her happy again.

* * *

><p>She has been summoned to the Divine's study by a fresh faced and stammering lay sister unable to meet her eyes, but more than capable of nervously twirling strands of her hair around her finger and casting fleeting glances to Hawke's face. Hawke barely remembers being that young. Despite her family's lot, she still believed the world held much hope and promise. How little she knew.<p>

Hawke studies her reflection in the standing mirror before making her way to the study. Perhaps Cassandra will have her way with her on the desk, though that's unlikely. It's far more probable that she'll discharge her as the Right Hand. The latter is preferable. She is not used to being under someone's thumb, excepting Isabela's knowledgable one, and has difficulty doing what she is told. She hates to admit it but Leliana is right and she is a terrible candidate for this position. Cassandra ought to let her go.

She knocks once on the door, her ebony gauntlet making the sound impossibly loud. Hawke curls her fingers. The gauntlet is incredibly difficult to pierce. It limits her in a pinch but the talons are sharp. That's something. Cassandra's voice beckons her in. Hawke expects for Leliana to be there and sure enough, she is.

She and Leliana exchange brief glances, standing an extra inch apart than they ought to. Too telling. Hawke smiles at her and shifts so they're closer. Leliana stiffens. Cassandra regards them impassively. Hawke wonders if Leliana is here to babysit or put an arrow through her. Maybe she only wanted to be present when Cassandra discharges her from service. _Threesome_? Oh, she doubts it.

"I take it I'm in trouble again. All right. Which one of you wants to give it to me first?" Cassandra frowns, puzzled, Leliana glowers. Hawke winks at her. "And please do be specific. I do so many things, I have trouble keeping track." Hawke wonders if Cassandra has spoken to Leliana about what happened between them and she has no question that Leliana would want to keep such a shameful thing to herself. Maker forbid others find out there's a sliver of flesh, a pulse of heartbeat, beneath all that ice.

"Of that I have no doubt," Cassandra says. "The dwarf tells me you have left me in his charge again."

"What dwarf?" Now she's being obnoxious. How many dwarves are in Orlais, let alone the Grand Cathedral? Cassandra's irritation is evident. _Forget Varric. Play some Wicked Grace with Cassandra instead. No poker face means plenty of coin for you._ But what good is coin? Hawke shrugs. "I thought you and Varric could discuss some upcoming plot points for Swords and Shields." A smile twitches on Leliana's lips. "Will the Captain of the Guard remain so virtuous? Or will she finally give in to her secret desires?"

"I am curious to that myself," Leliana says.

"Who isn't?" Hawke grins. "But I take it I haven't been summoned to discuss Swords and Shields." She looks to Leliana. "Not with you here, anyway."

"For once, you are correct." Leliana steps to the desk and Hawke catches the fragrance of some perfume, subtle, near undetectable but familiar to her. The one she wore on the night at the university ball. "Your role at the Winter Palace will be very important."

"And you're worried I'm going to screw it up somehow. Say it plainly and save all of us time. Go on."

Leliana's brow burrows but she does not argue. "Very well. This is not like a typical execution. There will be a party, of course."

"Of course," Hawke says as Cassandra grunts at the ugly business.

"You will be positioned beside Empress Celene," Leliana continues, "and you are not to wear that mask of yours. It is a mockery and wearing it will be seen as a slight to the Chantry and Most Holy."

"You prefer me without the mask. Noted."

Leliana's fingers curl along the map of the Winter Palace but she continues as if Hawke has said nothing. "As the Right Hand and the face of Most Holy, everyone will be watching you."

"Nothing new there."

"It is _extremely_ important that you are present but you do not react. You cannot seem overly eager but you cannot appear as if you disapprove of Celene's action. Remember, this is a gesture of goodwill on her behalf."

Hawke laughs. Cassandra and Leliana look at her. "I can't be the only one who thinks that's funny? I mean—a man's death, a gesture of goodwill? Can I write off all the men I've killed… when it's tax collecting season or—or am I exempt from that now that I work for the Chantry? No one ever said."

"Shut up, Hawke." Leliana says. Hawke smiles. She must have gotten under her skin indeed. Ha. "This is a significant moment in Divine Victoria's divineship. I will not allow you to squander it."

"You know, I think we got this all wrong. You should be the Right Hand and I should be the Left. I stay hidden and you go out there, Your Perfection, with the Voice and Eyes and Fist of the Divine. How about that?" She's surprised when Leliana's face goes red. Cassandra's does as well, both of them stewing. Hawke swung and struck without meaning to. A thick tension fills the air. "Whatever. I'll go and be the pretty face of the Chantry." She takes the map and folds it, tucking it into the small satchel at her side. "Is there anything more?" They're silent. "No? I'll be on my way."

"Hawke, wait." Cassandra. Hawke stops, facing them. Cassandra looks to Leliana. "If you will give us a moment."

"You can have me longer than that, Your Perfection."

"That won't be necessary," Cassandra looks to Leliana who bows, smiles thinly and departs.

Hawke shuts the door behind her but doesn't go so far as to turn the lock. She sits on one of the chairs, beautiful and adorned but uncomfortable. Perhaps one is never to feel too at ease before the Divine. Cassandra's face is hard as stone. Hawke shifts on the chair. "It'd be a shame to let your face freeze that way." She wiggles her fingers, a flurry of frost coming from them. Cassandra frowns more deeply. "You know Leliana is half in love with you."

The stone falls away. Cassandra gawps. "No! That is absurd. Why would you say such a thing?" Hawke smiles and shrugs. "Your stories are more ridiculous than Varric's."

"If you'd prefer we could talk about us instead. I still have my life so I can only assume you didn't tell Sister Nightingale what happened." Though she may well know now. Hakwe isn't sure Leliana isn't standing outside with a glass cup to the door. Cassandra stares at her, dumbfounded, her honeyed face reddening by the moment. "Was it truly so bad? I can apologize again, if you'd like. I've been told my apologies can be quite good."

"I can only assume you mean something vulgar. Maybe, anyway," she says, suddenly uncertain and half pacing. "You are insolent. Get out."

Hawke gets to her feet slowly. She straightens her clothing. "Why did you ask me to stay if you have nothing for me?" Cassandra only glares in response. Hawke wonders if she's offended her deeply. It's possible that Cassandra has no interest in women but when in Orlais, why not do as the Orlesians do? She bows and makes her way to the door.

"Hawke." Cassandra lays her hands flat on the desk. "You travel with too light of a cavalry. I wish that you would reconsider."

"The less attention I draw, the better. I likely have more enemies than you."

"That is not the way I would have it." She curls her fingers on the desk and straightens. "Please try to be careful. The journey to Halamshiral is fraught with danger."

She considers asking for a kiss goodbye but Cassandra is so earnest right now that the thought of vexing her again pains Hawke. "As you wish, Your Perfection."

* * *

><p>"That is the staff you're taking?"<p>

Hawke looks down at Leliana from the horse, black as night, she's mounted. She's unsure of where Leliana's come from. She is half convinced the woman is an apostate herself. How else can she travel so quietly and without notice? Hawke touches the smooth ebony of the staff and its three hissing snake heads. "I thought it appropriate." She spurs the horse into a slow walk.

Leliana follows on foot. "Why?"

"Oh, you know." Leliana must know. She is a keenly intelligent woman. Surely it does not escape her notice why three snakes might be inappropriate. She looks back to the Grand Cathedral, its two towers spiraling to the heavens themselves. "You're escorting me past the gates personally." She tsks. "Don't you have better things to do with your time?"

"I'm making sure you go," her fingers touch along the gate of the Grand Cathedral delicately, as if blessing the metal, "everyone knows how fond you are of distractions." Hawke smiles grimly. Ah, yes. She's startled when Leliana takes hold of the reins and in one swift movement pulls herself onto the horse behind her. Leliana's arms circle lowly along her waist. Hawke scowls. "We are slightly ahead of schedule but the armed guard will soon follow."

"'We'?"

"I need to speak to you. Privately."

Hawke looks around. There's a dirt path with lush grass in every other direction as far as the eye can see. There's a forest to the right. There are the usual visitors on the road on their journey to see the Grand Cathedral and listen to the Chant of Light, all hoping it will be as magnificent as they have heard and dreamed. "Who do you imagine is listening to us?"

Leliana digs her fingers painfully into Hawke's side. "Do not argue with me. Just do it."

Hawke grimaces and moves the horse past the passerbys and into the forest. Birds call out songs to one another, swooping from tree to tree. The sunlight is nearly obliterated under the thick canopy of trees. Hawke dismounts and ties the horse to a tree. Leliana gets down; they size each other up. "I'm getting really tired of your condescending bullshit." Leliana doesn't react. "Whatever you may think, I'm going to the Winter Palace," she steps closer, "to watch an innocent man be executed for a plot you hatched and I followed through on. Is this _fun_ to you? How do you sleep at night?"

"Without guilt or remorse. I can sleep at night because I know I'm doing everything I can to protect Divine Victoria's interests. Can you say the same?"

"I'm not sure these _are_ her interests. She would be sickened by this."

Leliana scoffs. "Don't be so sentimental. He is one of Celene's guards. Do you know anything about the empress? How clean do you expect his hands to be?" She shakes her head. "I knew I was right to be wary, Hawke. You're weak. I need to know that you are going to do what is needed. We cannot have you in the Winter Palace, up to your little tricks."

"The last I remember, you were quite fond of my 'little tricks'." Hawke remembers the night vividly even if she has yet to attach any particular meaning to it. Leliana was stunning and passionate. She had whispered encouragement and said Hawke's name, rasping and sweet, begging. Too many years ago in Lothering, Hawke had imagined what it might be like. Leliana was not able to return the favor and Hawke wonders if she would have, regardless of Cassandra's voice jarring them from whatever spell they were under. "I made you sing."

"Do not flatter yourself."

"You did all the flattering." Leliana averts her eyes. It seems as if The Left Hand and the Divine are conspiring to waste her time today. Hawke backs away from her, returning to the horse. "Let's get going. I can't afford to delay." She mounts the horse and stretches a hand out to Leliana, who takes it before resuming her previous position. "It'll be nice to get away from the Grand Cathedral."

"To get away from me, you mean."

"There is that."

Leliana wraps her arms around Hawke's waist again and Hawke feels the shape of her face pressed to her back. "I've been meaning to ask you about your time in the Fade. Did you see any spirits… any … familiar ones?"

"Yes."

"Don't you want to talk about it?"

"Not with you." Not with anyone. It's difficult enough to speak of it with Cassandra, Varric, Isabela. Why would Leliana be any different? Her experiences there are too personal. The very nature of the Fade strikes her as too discordant a topic to speak of with Leliana, who is pragmatic at best. Leliana's arms around her lash at old memories. Riding along the Wounded Coast with Isabela at her back. Hawke closes her eyes, imagining that it is Isabela who holds her close.

"Have you any news of Isabela?" Leliana asks.

Maybe, Hawke reasons, Leliana isn't just an apostate. Perhaps she's a blood mage, too. "Why do you ask about Isabela?"

"Ah, you're so touchy."

"I am, yes. You on the other hand…"

"You're still thinking of that night?"

Yes but likely not in the sense that Leliana thinks. The rendezvous left her exhilarated. For a period of time she felt wanted and loved, even if none of it was meant for her. Leliana's affections for Solona are clear. Afterward, Hawke only felt a peculiar bitterness and a loneliness, so gripping and cold she has yet to shake it. "Why did you ask about Isabela?" Hawke demands. She cranes her neck in an attempt to look at her but only catches a fleeting glance of red hair and the scent of her perfume.

"I was only curious."

"You're never satisfied with curiosity. You only care about what you can get. You must have asked for a reason. Have you heard something?"

A long silence follows and Hawke isn't sure if it's because Leliana feels slighted or because she's holding something back. "Nothing for you to worry about. She lives."

Hawke grips the reins tighter. The answer ought to satisfy her but she knows there's more to Leliana's prompting. It could be any number of things. Hawke thinks she'd prefer to not know.

"I know you think me a hard woman. You're not the only one. People think I do not care, but I do, deeply. For goodness to prevail, people like me have to exist."

Hawke scoffs. "Tell yourself whatever you like, Nightingale."

"You think you are the only one to have loved and lost, that you are the only one who has suffered but that is not so. There is suffering all around us. Some of us just hide it better than others."

"I'm not looking for pity. I'm not looking for—'we're not so different, you and I'."

"Maybe not. The Divine would like for us to find common ground to draw us closer together."

"A desk proved common ground enough last time."

Leliana tsks. "You're impossible to talk to." Hawke smiles. She can't recall anyone who hasn't said the same to her at one point or another. This is more satisfying than usual. "I know you have been lost since you returned from the Fade." Hawke's smile slips. Her hands squeeze so tightly on the reins that the metal of the gauntlet grinds in protest. "Have you thought about turning to the Maker?"

"To the Void with the Maker. He's no fan of mine."

Silence permeates the air between them. Outside the voices drifting in from the road and the sounds of the small animals of the forest, there is no sound.

"I know what it is to lose faith. Sometimes I think we turn to the Maker in desperation. We have to believe that the world and its people cannot be so cruel. We have to believe that someone out there must love us, must be willing to forgive us, despite our many sins. If we don't have that then hope is gone."

They're approaching the exit and Hawke tugs gently on the reins. "That scar on your belly. I take it it's no souvenir from the Blight?"

"You're right." Another long stretch of silence follows. Hawke is readying to get the horse moving again when Leliana speaks. "When I was a young woman, I was deeply involved in The Grand Game. I reveled in the small intricacies, the galas, the sex, the killing. I thought I was a master, I was such an arrogant thing. But I was nothing compared to some of the more veteran players. There was a woman who taught me. She was the first person I ever loved. I would have died for her. I would have betrayed nations for her—that's how deeply my love ran. Love, is a bit like obsession, isn't it? In the end she betrayed me. She put a knife in my gut and left me behind to take the fall for her actions. The Denerim guards took me. They beat me. Tortured me. Did… terrible things. The love bled out of me. I did not think I would survive but I did. Mother Dorothea—who later became Divine Justinia, helped me. The Maker and his teachings provided great comfort to me. And so, not long after, I joined a small chantry in Lothering. I chose Lothering because I knew it was small and of no consequence. Marjolaine wouldn't dream of looking for me there. Soon I met you, and sweet Bethany, and Carver."

It's strange to hear her brother and sister's names on the lips of another. How long since anyone has said their name? She thinks of their young faces, realizes they will always be young. Hawke wonders how much of Leliana's story she might have told if they were face to face, if they were in a familiar space. She tries to think of a joke, something to make the tension pass, to make everything she's just revealed insignificant. She comes up short. "Why have you told me?"

"I know what you must think of me. Our relationship has been… troubled. But some monsters were flesh once. Some of us became that way to preserve some goodness. Sometimes it's impossible for good people to do the right thing. And sometimes, to do the right thing, terrible things must be done. I wanted you to understand so you can do what has been asked."

Hawke absorbs her words and sighs softly. Whatever Leliana's intention had been, Hawke finds she does understand her motivations, has experienced what it is to turn to the darkness, to desperate measures in order to do the right thing, to protect the people that matter. The sunlight penetrates through the dense branches above. "Necessary things aren't always easy. I know you care about Cassandra but she would not want an innocent man to die in her stead."

"This is about something greater than Divine Victoria's life. If the forces continue to rise against her, in time they will become insurmountable and we won't be able to keep her safe. A new Divine will be elected—not all Divines are good. The Chantry in the hands of one such Divine could mean countless deaths, ripples with unimaginable repercussions."

Hawke cannot think of a way to argue. Certainly she never meant for what happened in Kirkwall to affect the world in such a way. "I understand but… Cassandra has aspirations for you. She wants you to lay down your burdens."

Leliana laughs caustically. "I cannot. I will not. There is no one else fit for this. I've told her so on many occasions. Sometimes I wonder if she listens."

"She's idealistic."

"And I'd like her to continue being idealistic."

"How sweet of you." The words come out sarcastic, despite how she means them. She attempts to turn again but Leliana's hand, pale and slender comes round to grip her face, ginger but fierce, to keep her facing forward.

Leliana's lips are against her ear, fluttering, butterflies wings, her hand flat against her stomach. "I know how lonely you are. Sometimes I wonder—can it be any other way for people like us? I know how you question." Her other hand reaches out, touching the sharp gauntlet. "Your claws are sharp. You left your mark on me. For weeks they lingered along my thighs. There they were, whenever I went to bathe. I found myself looking for them long after they'd gone. Sharpness is good. But even hard women need soft things. You have mage's hands. As silken as the hands of any noble."

Hawke's breath is trapped in her lungs. She isn't aware of it until it begins to burn.

"We will never be able to set our burdens aside. But perhaps, we can share them. I'll see you when you return, Hawke. May you walk in the light of the Maker."

The contact, her breath disappears. Hawke whirls but she's gone. How does she do that? Why does her heart pound?

* * *

><p>The elven servants flitter about, carrying platters of food and drink. The Winter Palace is filled with excited energy. Nobles come frocked in their most extravagant clothing, golden masks reflecting all the light of the palace. Empress Celene is in high spirits. Hawke has wandered the Winter Palace and seen the empress, in the shadows, speaking to an elven woman.<p>

She smiles when they notice, nodding before moving on her way. It occurs to her that this is the sort of place that would turn Isabela to butter. So many rich nobles, all stupid and vain, practically aching to be taken advantage of while they play their petty games.

"Serah Hawke." Empress Celene approaches on her own. Hawke wonders where her elf has gone to. Briala, if memory serves. Why hide such a thing when you're an empress? Why not have your cake or elf and eat it, too? "I am most pleased you were able to attend."

"Your Radiance," Hawke bows. The Empress is about her age, if not a little older. An empire is no mere thing to be handed at the age of sixteen and still, the woman has managed to cling to it after all this time, despite the challengers. Good for her. But, if she'd shown a little more gratitude an innocent man wouldn't be on his way to being executed. _But then there'd be no party. A true tragedy._

"I have heard much about you."

"I'm afraid it's all true."

Celene smiles and hooks her arm through hers. "Your deeds in Kirkwall were magnificent. That city was barbaric. The templars, as much so." Hawke nearly agrees before biting her tongue. It dawns on her that Celene might be playing a game with her, that Celene, is likely, one of the top players of the Game and anything said might be used to hurt the Chantry and Cassandra's position. With that terrible realization in play, she realizes this party will likely be a bore. She will have to keep her mouth shut. "You were right to free the mages from the Knight-Commander's tyranny."

"We all do the Maker's work in our own way." Freeing slaves and oppressed mages, living tedious lives of chastity, killing and throwing parties, killing Celene's pompous duke cousin. Some are more fun than others. Hawke wonders and hopes Celene will bring Prosper up. Celene may be masked but her mouth is not and Hawke wants to see her reaction

"I am doing the little I can," Celene guides her to the ballroom. A royal throne has been placed there along with with other less ornate chairs. It's a perfect view for the executioner's stage. Some of the nobles dance on the stage. One of the men sticks his head through the noose while the others laugh gaily.

An elf comes with a platter of drinks. "Ahh, what a pity that such a beautiful woman should go without a drink. But a blessing for the rest of us lowly folk, that your exquisite face is bared for us to see." Hawke plucks a glass of champagne from the tray. Why not? She looks at his face. Antivan, blond, handsome. Her lips purse.

"You are too forward, elf," Celene says.

"Ah, yes, forgive me." He bows lowly. "Where are my manners? I am afraid that I forget myself in the company of such exceptional women. A drink for you as well, your Imperial Majesty." He bows his head lowly that Hawke cannot even see it anymore. But she knows that elf. She's slept with that elf. Zevran. Celene takes the drink and Zevran is gone as quickly as he appeared.

"Elves." Celene shakes her head, having a drink of the champagne.

"Do you mind them?" Hawke smiles. "I think they're a _delightful_ way to pass the time." Hawke hasn't forgotten her year working her way up the underworld— nor her 'late nights taking inventory' with Athenril. Celene stares steadily back at her. The mask is such that she cannot see whether her cheeks redden but her lips, her eyes reveal nothing. Oh, she's _good_.

Why is Zevran here? Are the Crows here? No, he's no longer with them, or wasn't, the last she knew. She scans the room searching for him but stops short, the air going out of her lungs. To the far left, leaning over a railing is Isabela. She wears a mask and a long white dress, worthy of an Orlesian ball—but it's her, Hawke is certain. She knows those lips, she knows that form beneath the dress. Zevran passes by her, whispers in her ear and she laughs.

"Serah Hawke." Hawke blinks at Celene. "Have I bored you?"

It is difficult to keep her voice steady. "No, your Radiance. Forgive me. I thought I saw a ghost."

* * *

><p>The trap door gives way and the man drops with a bang. The nobles cheer. Hawke hopes his neck will snap, that the death will be painless but it doesn't and he kicks, fights with the rope, fights at death quickly closing in on him.<p>

Hawke bites her tongue and tells herself over and over again to keep her fingers straight, to not make fists, to not twist her mouth, to not turn away, to not run over and cut him loose. It is what she would have done before.

His face turns red and then purple, his choking cries echo across the ballroom for minutes and then he stops struggling, his tongue swelling and hanging from his mouth. His body swings gently from side to side as if in a waltz. The rope squeaks. _You killed that man._ No. _I'm not different. I'm only distracted because of Isabela. I can't act because I'm the Right Hand._

But as the whispers close in her ears, as she feels the Fade around her, always with her in some way now, much like Anders had spoken to her about it before he went completely mad— she knows she's only lying to herself. She's different. She's different, Maker help her. There would never have been an excuse for her to allow this travesty before. She feels sick.

"I speak for Our Most Holy Divine Victoria when I thank you for righting this terrible wrong." From the corner of her eye she sees running, guards scrambling into the recesses of the Winter Palace. Isabela. "We will not soon forget your allegiance." Hawke holds Celene's hand only a moment, her kiss only a whisper along her fingers before she moves on her way, moving after them.

* * *

><p>The guards are shouting.<p>

Hawke hurries into the gardens. Isabela and Zevran are there, surrounded by about fifteen guards. _Bloody fantastic. Why not end a public hanging with a bloodbath?_ Isabela tosses a small satchel into the bushes.

The guards charge. Isabela cackles with delight. "I've been _craving_ some action!"

"Ah, ha ha," Zevran retrieves a bow he had clearly hidden earlier in the evening for such an occasion, "you shall have it, my sweet. Now and then later!"

Isabela laughs. Hawke knows that laugh. Something in her goes cold. She stands in the shadows, watching them fight. Isabela is as vicious as she remembers though not as fast. Zevran is a marvel with the bow and arrow, smashing it into those who would dare get too close, leaping back and burying an arrow between the eyes of those foolish enough to enter the skirmish.

It seems an easy enough battle. Hawke isn't sure what happens. She thinks it's an archer up above that spears Isabela's shoulder and then her ribs with an arrow. Zevran cries out in surprise. He's furious as Isabela stumbles back. "Oh, shit." Isabela says, as if she's only stepped in dog shit and not been pierced by two arrows.

With Isabela out of the fight the men descend on Zevran. He can't beat them back. Hawke watches man after man go after him, punch his face, Isabela's desperate expression like a knife to the heart. Which is strange. It isn't supposed to hurt anymore. How can a knife enter when there's nothing to go into? The guards are focused on the thieves so they don't notice her. Hawke moves forward and grabs one of the men, cleanly snapping his neck. Even a weakling like her can do it with surprise and pressure on her side. She takes Isabela's mask from her face, reptilian and snakelike, slipping it over her own face.

It's dark but time is of the essence. She's going to have to kill every one of them. She'll have to because they'll know. Her heart pounds. "All right boys, how about a fight from someone who _isn't_ a washed up has been?" They turn and get blasted in the face with a fireball.

They shriek and spread. Perfect. The archer is still there. She knows it because she gets an arrow through her shoulder. All right. Maybe she _is_ a washed up has been. She turns, lifts a hand, squeezes her fingers and though she only has an instant to look, she sees the effect, his bones snap, the spell crushing him. He screams so loudly it'll soon draw attention.

Zevran is crawling his way to Isabela, feeding her potion. There's that at least. At least he's good for something. Hawke yanks the arrow from her shoulder. Her eyes flash as blood spills free. With a whirl of the staff she's sliced open the neck of an approaching guard. She's flush with energy, adrenaline pumps through her like an aphrodisiac. A guard comes running at her and she dodges his swipe, taking the dagger from her back and sticking him in the stomach, under and up. Isabela taught her that move. The guard tries to run. _No, no, no. You work for me, now. _She pulls the dagger free.

He turns, attacking the approaching guards who shout in surprise. "Oh shit, oh shit, she's a blood—" Hawke looks at him, makes him walk toward the others until his body blows, splattering the others in chunks of meat and bone. There are three running. Fast. Hawke looks at the corpses at her feet. Able bodied enough. She lifts her hand and they lift like marionettes. _Stop them._

They're surprisingly fast though the action drains her and leaves her disoriented. She falls to one knee and wipes the blood from her nose. It's been far too long since she's done that though she's stronger than before. The corpses catch up with the remaining guards, kill them before going still again. She gets to her feet. "Is she all right?" Hawke asks Zevran.

"The arrow has punctured a lung." He holds Isabela's hand tenderly. "Hawke is here now. You will be all right." He looks up at her. "You can heal her, yes? You can do that." His nose is bleeding profusely, face beginning to swell.

Isabela doesn't look at her.

"Let's get her up," Hawke goes into the bushes and grabs Isabela's satchel, "we have to go now."

* * *

><p>They had a carriage waiting and Hawke's grateful. The arrows have been yanked out of Isabela and she's drank enough potions to keep her alive. Hawke's still dizzy and Isabela swims in her vision but she kneels beside her anyway. Oh, this is not nearly as fun as the last time they were all together. Now she makes a crowd.<p>

Isabela bats her away. "No," her voice is weak, "no, you can't after that, you can't—"

"Now is not the time for your nobility, Isabela," Zevran stands crouched looking down at her.

Isabela laughs. "What nobility? You've got the wrong girl."

"Will you both shut up?" Hawke says. They do but the silence is suffocating. "I need to concentrate." It's only half true. She slips a hand beneath Isabela's neck and brings a hand to her ribs. That's the most important wound to heal. She sniffles, tasting blood, swallowing. Her hand warms and Isabela makes a small sound as the magic begins its work. Once again Hawke bites her tongue, swallowing the cry of pain. Healing has always been so tedious, so selfless. It isn't her. An ache starts burrowing in her ribs as she absorbs Isabela's injury. There's something intimate about healing magic. They had their first kiss that way. "Next time, try dodging."

"I told you I'm getting on in age."

"Sure seems that way."

Isabela pulls the mask from Hawke's face. "This mask isn't you." Hawke isn't sure she agrees. "So the Right Hand, is it? That has to be the stupidest thing you've done to date." Some of the strength is returning to her voice. Her eyes glisten. Is it only because she's wounded? "I'm sorry."

Hawke grits her jaw. How is she supposed to chew her out for how she has potentially compromised her position as the Right Hand? How, if there was some other witness, the Chantry and Divine Victoria's rule could be undone? Leliana was right. She's an idiot. An emotional idiot. Her eyes burn. She isn't sure if it's with pain, the events of the evening, the innocent man she let die while she murdered countless for thieves and assassins. What's wrong with her? _Everything_. "You should be. Do you know how hard blood stains are to remove?"

Isabela laughs and Hawke falls back, disoriented. Everything spins. Her lungs burn. What were they doing at the Winter Palace? Did they know she'd be there? Was it all an accident? All she has are questions she doesn't want answers to. She pulls herself to a sitting and tugs at the carriage door. Isabela and Zevran argue, they want to make her stay but she can't stay. Maker, she can't stay. She wonders what was in the satchel. What was worth dying for? Treasure? Jewels? Coin? What a pointless waste. She staggers out, desperate for air.

* * *

><p>She burns her bloodied robes and the Staff of Violation, too. She has pants and a thin shift. It will have to do. She walks aimlessly for hours, looking for a water source, knowing her face and arms are still soaked in blood. Her shoulder. She'll have to get to her shoulder. But first water. Leliana's going to kill her. No, she got all the witnesses. She knows she got all the witnesses. She sensed it. She can sense those things.<p>

Eventually she finds a river. She stoops next to the bank but can't find the energy to get herself clean. Minutes pass before she falls over on her side, listening to the rush of water. A crescent moon hangs in the darkness. Her breath fogs. It's cold. She closes her eyes and hears what might be footsteps and might be the rustling of grass.

"I can't leave anything to you. Is this how you keep your promise to Most Holy? You promised to be careful."

Hawke opens her eyes. Leliana. Three of them. Then two. Then three again and then one. "You _were_ listening. I knew it." Leliana sinks beside her and gets an arm around her waist, taking one of Hawke's arms and circling it over her shoulder. Hawke nearly pulls her down. "I bet Cassandra could lift me," her words are slurred and tired.

"Most Holy is not here. Most Holy cannot ever hear of this, understand?" Does she know? How does she know? She can't know. She doesn't know. Leliana half carries, half drags Hawke to her horse, the very one she took on the journey to Halamshiral. How did she find it? Did she go to the Winter Palace? "Get your foot in the stirrup. Go on. I can't lift you on my own."

They attempt it for minutes before Hawke manages. Leliana pushes her onto the horse. Hawke slumps forward on it and Leliana climbs on behind her. The horse smells like horse. She tells Leliana who pretends she hasn't heard her. Maybe she didn't. Hawke closes her eyes again as Leliana secures an arm around her. "It hurts."

"I know."

* * *

><p>AN: Ah, so many guest appearances. This story is already way longer than I anticipated it being. When will it end? No clue! Thanks for the very kind reviews and faves and follows! It's a good reminder that this story isn't finished and I should get to work, damn it.


	8. Chapter 8

After the third instance of Hawke nearly falling off the horse, Leliana decides it's time to abandon travel. The delay was initially unwelcome. Now it becomes necessary.

Fortunately, Leliana knows the area well. There are small cabins that litter the landscape, many of them abandoned during the war. Her agents are known to use them.

Leliana slides off the horse. Hawke falls. It is her poor luck that it happens to be in a particularly muddy area. Leliana clucks her tongue. Hawke grunts softly and Leliana turns her over, helping her to her feet. "You are more trouble than you're worth."

* * *

><p>The cabin is old and dusty. Much of the furniture is decrepit but there's nowhere else to go. Leliana unceremoniously dumps Hawke into the tub stuffed into a cramped room. She lights a fire along with the small candles that are still scattered around the space.<p>

There's a well outside and Leliana pulls bucket after bucket of water, spilling it into the tub where Hawke scarcely stirs. After it's half filled and Leliana has tired of the effort, she grabs a fistful of Hawke's hair, yanking her head back.

Startling blue eyes, brighter beneath the muck and blood, focus on her. Leliana frowns. "I know what you are. Did you think you could hide it from me?" Hawke's eyes drift along the room, searching for an escape route, or perhaps a weapon. "This goes against every teaching of the Chantry. Most Holy can never know."

But really she ought to kill her. Leliana's hand slips to her side, her fingers skirting along the hilt of the blade. Hawke cannot possibly see and yet she focuses on her. The corner of her mouth is lifted only enough to make Leliana question whether she actually sees it. "Go ahead," Hawke says.

She must want death. Once more Leliana's left wondering what happened to her in the Fade. "As if I'd let you go so easily." Even now her fingers have difficulty releasing her.

* * *

><p>"Why not tell Cassandra?" Hawke asks. Leliana stares at Hawke's shoulder, where the pinprick of red has bloomed large as a fist. Hawke's question is a simple one, she has answers but none definitive. "Do you even believe in the Maker anymore?"<p>

Leliana stands from the poor wooden chair. Hawke sits on the small twin bed gazing at her. "You're still bleeding. Are you so poor a healer?" She kneels beside Hawke. Her skin glistens from the bath. Upon closer inspection, Leliana sees how she shivers. "Will you be all right?" Hawke scoffs. Leliana palms her face, her thumb dragging along Hawke's lower lip.

"I can't figure why you do it. Is it just that you're in love with Cassandra? Are you trying to get to a ghost?" Spirit, she corrects.

"What do _you_ feel for her? Why are _you_ here?" Cassandra has her crush. Maker knows she spoke enough about the Champion after her interrogation of Varric. Yet, Leliana doubts the woman knows. More often than not she's ignorant of any soft feelings she may have. Her love of smutty novels is the only indication of any romantic inklings. That and the stack of poetry books she keeps near her person. "You're not well suited to the position. We all know it. But you do as you're told. You watched a man die for the crime we committed, despite your reservations." It's almost romantic.

"I didn't do it for you." It always surprises Leliana, when it shouldn't, how Hawke's voice goes from warm to ice. A soft sigh and a bow of her head and Hawke meets her eyes again. "I don't know what to do anymore. I'm not used to being a sidekick. This isn't my world."

"Neither was Kirkwall. You came into the city a refugee and emerged a Champion." Leliana narrows her eyes thoughtfully. "I know what you have lost. It is a part of your legend now. A character trait," she adds mirthlessly. "Is that when you turned to blood magic? After your mother…"

Hawke's jaw clenches. "I thought you knew everything."

"Perhaps. But not the reasons why." A beat. "I have met many blood mages. There was one in Redcliffe years ago—Jowan. He helped save Connor." Not that the boy survived the events this time around. "Sometimes we must work in the grey_. If_ the Maker exists… I…" Even now she's afraid to say the words aloud, afraid that it will be Cassandra to suffer His wrath. "I know what solace darkness brings when there's nothing else. Sometimes you want to close your eyes and leap."

"Isabela has moved on."

"Zevran is a good man." A beat. "But… I'm sure that is no comfort to you." In fact, Leliana knew they would be at the Winter Palace. They are her eyes and ears in places she cannot reach and have their own connections to keep her informed. Zevran would have reported, interfered had Hawke thought to. Leliana had not anticipated that Hawke would be drawn into any fighting. She sacrificed everything to keep Isabela alive. After Leandra died, that must be all Hawke felt had left. Ah. So that's the reason. That fear.

"He did kill her husband for her. I can't say I did that."

"But you wish you had." It must have happened long ago. Isabela was not married when Leliana met her over ten years past. Hawke smiles wryly. "I can only imagine what you think of me. I have… shown weakness that I would have preferred remain hidden." She said Solona's name, thought of her while Hawke stroked and pleased her. Leliana's throat is closed off. It scrapes as she clears it. "I find myself wondering if a god who shows only cruelty, who takes all the light in this world is worth loving. The Chantry teaches that the Maker tests us as a show of Faith. But how does he repay us for our favor? Should we ask for payment? Should we accept the suffering without question? Why should He hurt us to make us prove our love?" Is it meant to be so toxic?

"I don't know." Leliana listens to her talk, turning Hawke's arm, undoing the belts of her gauntlet. "I'm not sure I came back right from the Fade. There are pieces missing… I…" she hangs her head. Leliana lifts, pushing the hair back from Hawke's face. "I'm so fucking lonely. I don't know how to talk to Varric anymore. I'm … angry at him, at everyone, everything. When I'm not angry there's…" her fingers touch her chest, curling, digging. Leliana pulls the gauntlet away. It falls with a thunk to the floor. "I don't know what to believe in anymore."

"Believe in Most Holy. Believe in me."

"You?"

Leliana places her hands on Hawke's knees, sliding them upward until they touch her hips and only the insurmountable distance of insecurity separates their lips. Solona's lips, Hawke's lips, similar but hungrier. Leliana remembers when the Blight got difficult, finding Solona by the river in the night, her hand wet with black. _I should do everything in my power, shouldn't I? But is it right?_ She had been friends with that Jowan. Tears of frustration dotted her lashes.

Hawke isn't Solona. Leliana is no longer the woman who puts restrictions on methods to meet means. Maybe she's lost her way. Maybe she no longer cares for the approval of the Maker. What does it say about her? It would horrify Cassandra. Why should her Left and Right Hand be so scarred by the inaction of the Maker?

"Me," Leliana says. "Is it so strange?" Solona once trusted her implicitly. Leliana had not been completely honest with her. She felt close to her and feared rejection. Then she died and Leliana has regretted her dishonesty, has wondered if she'd accept her death if she had a clear conscience. That is more about her than Solona, however. There was a time when Leliana would have given her life to bring Solona back. Now she wonders what that might have meant for Justinia's reign, for The Inquisition, for Cassandra. She no longer trusts that love conquers all, not anything that matters. Maybe she's a horrible person. Maybe Solona would be disgusted by who she's become.

"It's bloody mad." Hawke watches her evenly. Can she see beneath? Leliana is no longer sure she knows how to flinch. Hawke curls her fingers. They tremble against the bed sheets. "But I can't think of anything that isn't."

"You're still shaking, you poor thing." Her fingers cradle Hawke's neck gingerly. "Are you in pain?" Hawke smiles ironically. It's not one of her brighter questions. Her knee settles between Hawke's legs, a hand flat against her chest. "It's cold tonight but I can be warm." She presses her down carefully onto the bed. "I'll show you."

* * *

><p>Cassandra observes them. She has always worn her heart on her sleeve. She has never been adept at hiding her thoughts, her feelings. Bless her, she has always been so honest. Yet, Leliana cannot read her as she once did. Is she losing her touch, or has Cassandra adapted herself as she must to be a player of the Grand Game? The Divine has always been one of its finer players. Leliana imagined that this Divine would be different but perhaps she is wrong.<p>

"I understand you were injured," Cassandra looks at Hawke. "I do not understand how this happened. I do know there was a skirmish in Halamshiral. A good number of the Empress' guards were killed. Butchered. Would you know anything about that?"

"Me?" Hawke shrugs and grimaces as she does so. "From what others tell me, I know very little of anything." Cassandra frowns. "I was there to see to the execution, Your Perfection. I observed it and departed. I was ambushed on the way back."

"Why did you leave your armed guard? Why did they return here in desperation reporting your absence?"

"I wanted to be on my own."

"That is not your decision to make," Cassandra slams a hand down on the desk. "Perhaps Leliana is correct and you are not suitable to be the Right Hand." Leliana waits for a smart quip and even Cassandra gives her the time to chime in but Hawke keeps her mouth shut. "You're reckless. You disappeared after the bloodbath at Halamshiral. And now you return to the Grand Cathedral with nothing of what you left with."

"Bandits steal things."

"Do not lie to me." Cassandra's lip twitches. Hawke is still. "I would speak to Leliana alone. Leave us." Hawke doesn't move. "_Now_." Hawke nods stiffly, clearly taken aback. This was not anticipated. Hawke bows and exits. Leliana waits. The door clicks quietly behind them but Leliana knows that Hawke has already moved on. She does not linger. She seems always intent on pushing forward, no matter the means she must take to do so. "Tell me what happened. It was my belief that you were to stay in the Grand Cathedral. Imagine my surprise to discover that you were nowhere to be found after Hawke departed for Halamshiral."

"The matter at the Winter Palace was a delicate situation, Most Holy. Forgive me. I had… concerns. I followed Hawke to ensure things went according to plan."

"So not only does my Right Hand lie to me, my Left Hand sees fit to leave me out of any decision making. Do you have so little faith in me? Or do you think me so stupid a Divine that I am not worthy of being told of your plans? Have you forgotten that you and Hawke are to report to me and not the other way around?"

Leliana's mouth twists. "Forgive me—"

"No. I will not. You throw those words at me, over and over and continue as you have. Over and over you leave me chasing my own tail. I have no sense of what is happening in my own Divineship! You will tell me what happened in Halamshiral and you will tell me now. If you do not, Leliana, Maker help us both."

Since Cassandra has taken the Divineship she has been crushed by her own expectations. She was always hardest on herself, much more critical than others might be. Now Leliana sees that fire she wielded as the Right Hand for Divine Justinia and surely the same one she used when working with Divine Beatrix. "I would not have you know."

"It is my decision. I am Divine Victoria. You are the Left Hand. You will tell me now or I will replace you with the dwarf."

Leliana smiles without meaning to. "You cannot be serious." Varric may have a spymaster network but his is far inferior to her own. He is sentimental and soft. He spends as much time looking after his agents as he does doing what he is actually tasked with. "You know as well as I do that he is not so capable as I am."

"Yes, but he does not see fit to lie to me so consistently as you. I can't believe I've just said that. His words have some meaning. I would prefer someone less effective and more truthful. I do not know how to trust you anymore."

Leliana blinks and clears her throat. Cassandra's eyes glisten, despite how deeply her eyebrows are narrowed. "Most Holy—I ask that you believe that I would not do anything to hurt your Divineship. You are not meant to know my actions." She steps forward cautiously and sees Cassandra's fingers clench on the desk. "You wish to bring a new direction to the Chantry. I believe you can but _not_ if you know my methods. You would question yourself. We need you. Everyone in Thedas needs you." Yet, she wonders if she only fears Cassandra's judgment.

"You're stalling."

Is she? "You cannot expect me to recount every action I have taken since taking your seat on the Sunburst Throne." Each detail of every operation, every action that kept her up until all hours of the night. It would be impossible to tell.

"Why not start with the Winter Palace. Surely you remember_ that._"

Cassandra's face is tight, sharp, mean. Leliana has enjoyed seeing her that way, when reaching out to a particularly troublesome cleric or noble. She has not ever seen it directed her way and feels inexplicably intimidated. Silly. Cassandra is a greater fighter but Leliana is craftier, quicker. It would be easy to end her. She hates how her thoughts operate. She would never hurt Cassandra. She could never hurt Cassandra. The instinct to survive is dangerous. "Hawke went to the Winter Palace as your representative."

"That I know."Cassandra waits. Leliana finds herself inexplicably tongue tied. "Is it so terrible what you have done, that you cannot share it with me?"

"No, it is not." She's defensive. "Very well, Most Holy. I will tell you. Empress Celene's support was waning. You know how important she is in Orlais, let alone Thedas. For better or worse, she can influence the opinion of the general population. Celene had been sending Orlais in a new direction—a secular direction, unconcerned with the teachings of the Maker. After everything we did for her. We saved her life," she scoffs, "and still, she had become forgetful. Sister Clarice was an agent of Grand Cleric Victoire, an associate of Sister Natalie. It was an easy matter to procure the dagger of one of Celene's men."

Cassandra's lips part. "Do not tell me you had that cleric murdered. You were absent… Did you kill her?"

"No. I had Hawke do it. It served two purposes: one, to test her loyalty to you and two, to put Celene back in her place. It worked beautifully. You see, Orlesians in power are all the same. They'll do anything, say anything to save themselves."

"She was a _sister_ of the Chantry…!"

"She was an agent of Victoire. She was plotting, along with the Grand Cleric, to sway the clerics to their side and oust you." She smiles palely. "So, I suppose ending her served three purposes."

"You let me speak to the audience of the university, about the injustice of Sister Clarice's murder when my own people were responsible for it?" She moves around the desk so swiftly that Leliana momentarily thinks she's going to hit her. Instead she stands in front of her, so close that Leliana can feel her hot breath. Leliana focuses on the scar on her cheek. She can't meet her eyes. "How _dare_ you?"

"I—"

"I am not sure I want you to speak. I am not certain that everything you say will not be a lie. You had Hawke go to the Winter Palace and watch a man die for the crime she committed. You had me ask her to do the same."

Leliana bites her tongue. "It is the Grand Game. You know this."

"_No_." Leliana blinks quickly but can't swallow. "I should wring your neck." She keeps silent. "What's this? No song to sing? No lie to invent? What else have you kept hidden from me? Tell me what happened at the Winter Palace. I want the truth." Cassandra's hand presses hard on her shoulder and the next instant Leliana finds herself sitting, Cassandra looming dangerously over her. "Hawke witnessed the execution of an innocent man," she spits, "and then what?"

Leliana looks up at her. Does Cassandra not think she can withstand her interrogation? She endured blight sickness and Alexius' torturers for a year in that other world. What makes her think she cannot endure this? "Most Holy. Do not ask that which you do not wish to know."

"I am not asking. I am demanding. You _will_ tell me."

"Or?"

"Do not test me. Do not think me soft. You do not know what I am capable of."

"You are soft. It's why you need me. You have nothing to be ashamed of. But neither do I."

"Talk!"

Leliana looks at her neck, again at the scar. She speaks as if to that hurt. "Zevran and Isabela are agents of mine. Luck happened to bring them to the Winter Palace that night. Zevran was to report if Hawke was thinking of doing anything foolish."

"Like intervening in the execution of an innocent man?"

"Like that. They were there for their own purposes. The guards found out. Hawke intervened."

"She was responsible for that slaughter? How? So many of them?"

"You forget she fought the Arishok."

"That was one man, not sixteen of Celene's guards!"

"She's a powerful apostate from Kirkwall. Use your imagination."

Cassandra stares blankly at her. Then she pulls back as if burned. "No."

Leliana rises. "_Yes_."

"I did not tell you to stand!" Cassandra thrusts her back into the seat fiercely. Leliana winces in pain at the unexpected action. "How long have you known?" Leliana narrows her eyes. "Why would you keep this from me? You know what it could mean to this Divineship! You know how I feel about maleficarum!"

"I _do_. It was the reason I had a knife to her throat the night you intervened, the night you made me swear to not allow any harm to come to her, either through direct or indirect intervention, through action or inaction. I have told you time after time to let her go, that she is not suitable and you insisted. Well then. There you have it."

"The Champion of Kirkwall," she's bereft. Only for a moment. "I want the Templars to gather her. _Now_."

"No."

"_No_? You question _me_? My Right Hand is a blood mage and you would argue? Why?" She shakes her head. "It does not matter. You will _do_ as I say Leliana and you will do it now. Do you understand?"

The air builds in her lungs, burning. She isn't sure what she expected to happen. Perhaps she expected Cassandra to understand, perhaps she trusted, poorly, that Cassandra would let her affection for Hawke sway her despite her hatred of blood mages. _Or maybe, you wanted a way to be rid of Hawke._ No. She does not believe that. She is not so far gone. She cannot be so far gone. _I can be warm. I'll show you._ No. She is not a monster. And yet, she is already beginning to consider other suitable candidates for the Right Hand. "Doing this would hurt your Divineship. Why else would the templars take the Right Hand into custody, the Champion of Kirkwall, unless she was a blood mage? The chaos between templars and the rebel mages has been dying down, this would spark that paranoia and fear all over again."

"You expect me to do nothing? She goes against everything the Maker stands for."

"She has helped us. She has helped others. You're letting your past cloud your judgement, Cassandra."

"Do not talk to me about judgment. You are vile."

Leliana blinks quickly and goes cold. Oh. "I am vile so you do not have to be. I regret nothing."

"Then you are lost. As is any hope I had for you. Get out of my sight. There is much I must consider."

Leliana thinks she's stood before she actually has. When she does rise her knees are wobbly. "Most Holy," she bows, but she only moves her lips, she can't manage words.

* * *

><p>Hawke opens the door to her room, an insolently casual smile on her lips. It soon shifts to puzzlement. "What's the matter?" Leliana stands there until Hawke takes her arm and pulls her inside, shutting the door behind them. "I take it things with Cassandra didn't go well?" She laughs lightly. "Am I fired?"<p>

Leliana searches for words. Truthfully she does not know what Cassandra will do. Cassandra may very well come into the room and run Hawke through with a longsword. It would be politically expedient. It would be smart, were she to address the situation at all. Once again she questions whether she genuinely thought Cassandra might accept Hawke. Why would she think that? Cassandra is the most pigheaded person she knows, idealistic to a fault. Maybe she overestimated her affection for Hawke. She's defended the woman enough.

"Most Holy demanded to know what happened at the University of Orlais and the Winter Palace. I told her."

Hawke's face is unreadable. Her lips purse before she steps back, disoriented. "Ah— you told her—what you swore to me we must never tell her? How crafty of you."

"You make me sound so manipulative. Cassandra is naïve, not stupid. She swore she could handle it. She demanded to know. My duty is to her, not you." And yet her stomach turns. She should have known better. What has she done? What if Cassandra kills her? How can they account for the death of the Right Hand, the Champion of Kirkwall? Surely—there is… someone it could be pinned on—some way that it could benefit the Divineship. On the other hand, if Hawke is spared, her influence as a blood mage to control minds, walk dreams could be a boon. Her eyes sting—Maker. She is broken. Why can she not stop herself from thinking this way? Why must everything be turned to profit—all life's players just pieces in a chessboard? How is she so cold? And why now must she feel the weight of her actions?

"Is she going to make me Tranquil?"

Hawke's eyes are wide, fearful, hopeful. Maker. Why does she call to Him? What will He do? The opposite of what she wants. He will take her. He will take her as He takes all those who matter, all those worthy of living. "I don't know. I don't know," she says more quickly. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I thought—" she takes her arm the moment the door bursts open.

Cassandra is dressed in her Seeker armor, the sword at her side. Her eyes are hot. She looks between the two of them and Leliana lets her hand fall away. Hawke looks something Leliana thought her incapable of looking: contrite. "I can't think of a joke," Hawke says, smiling helplessly.

Cassandra doesn't take her eyes off Hawke. "Leave us, Leliana." Her hand is on the hilt of her sword.

"Most Holy?"

"I can handle blood mages. I have killed countless, even as a young girl. Do as I say and _leave_."

Leliana looks between the two of them. Cassandra is focused on Hawke. Hawke's breathing is hurried. Leliana wonders how her shoulder wound is, whether it will stop hurting once Cassandra ends her. Cassandra was furious with Varric for keeping Hawke's location to himself. She felt betrayed for so long. Leliana doesn't know that she's forgiven him yet. Can she forgive Hawke? "Most Holy… I implore you—do not do something you will regret."

Hawke grins. "You should listen to her, Your Perfection. If you did that you'd have something in common with a filthy blood mage."

"I will not tell you again, Leliana."

Leliana's heart jumps. Hawke catches her eyes for a fleeting moment and nods minutely. Cassandra does not miss it. Leliana bows and exits, shutting the door behind her but she cannot leave. She closes her eyes, her forehead pressed to the door, exhaling._ Believe in Most Holy. Believe in me._ Did she mean any of it? Was she only playing a game? She should know. She doesn't know.

* * *

><p>AN: Shorter chapter, I know. It took way too long. Apologies. As always, thanks for the reviews and follows! I hope there's no weird formatting issues in this chapter, the site was being a little weird. If so, I'll try to fix stat.


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